Come Away With Me
by doctorcoffeeboy
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock are visited in the night by a curious boy who snuck in through the window, claiming to be from Neverland... This was my NaNo story, a Mystrade twist on a Neverland story. I've not written anything properly for more than a year, but hopefully this'll bring me back. M for safety, but nothing explicit.
1. Chapter 1

Well, it's good to be back after so long, I tell you. This is my first shot at Mystrade, and written for mystradedoodles over on Tumblr. I wrote it for NaNo so there may well be errors in continuity. Sorry about that, but I desperately wanted to get it seen as soon as possible. Once I've revised it and edited as appropriate. There's not a lot of strictly M-rated content, for while I greatly apologise, but writing that stuff on a stict daily word count is actually rather difficult.

I'll be posting it all up in one hit, but feel free to review whenever you feel you need to/want to! Greatly appreciated, of course.

It's all happened before, and it will all happen again. And on this occasion, it happened to Mycroft Holmes, aged 16. He wasn't exactly what could be considered an obvious candidate. He wasn't exactly a child any more, more at that awkward middle age, when being a child seems ludicrous but being an adult is too daunting to comprehend.

His father was at that stage in a father's life when he tries to mould his eldest son into who he wants him to be, rather than who the son would prefer to be, and Mycroft had no choice. Ever since he was young, Mycroft was sent to boarding school, Dinesford School for Boys, to 'teach him how to manage alone'. Though why a seven year old boy should have to manage alone, he never understood.

Mycroft was by no means a 'slow' child. Quite the contrary, he often outwitted teachers, knew all the answers, and was able to read people, as if their lives and secrets were written out in front of him over each person. Lies and love melted together, clinging to their skin like an extra layer, moving with them as they passed him.

One this particular night, a late Friday at the end of August, with London quiet at the hour nobody is supposed to be awake, Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, working silently. It was always going to be a Friday, after all. The sky was still dark, but he knew it to be 3am, when the roads were at the emptiest, which was never very empty at all, in London. Father and mother had retired a long time ago, and his little brother even more. Sherlock was only nine, and not nearly old enough to stay up with him. Not that it stopped him trying, of course. He was a Holmes; he never simply took things at face value.

Sighing, Mycroft tried to make himself focus on the words in front of him. He had essays to write, and father had already secured him a place in the government, of all places. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful – it was good to know he had somewhere to go after school, an internship of sorts – but it wasn't what he wanted to do with his life. However, he'd never been allowed to think about what he really wanted, so he supposed this was the best choice.

Try as he might, he just couldn't bring himself to concentrate on the variations of prose available in the 18th century. His mind kept casting back to Sherlock, in the nursery that was once his bedroom too. He'd heard father say Sherlock needed to grow up, for he was less than half a year away from progressing to double digits in age. But Sherlock didn't want to grow up, because what if Peter Pan didn't want him? Mycroft remembered that very conversation himself, a hazy memory that he had trouble thinking about due to the ache it created.

His eyes passed to the unlatched window. Each day, his father would close it up and lock it, and each night Mycroft habitually unpicked the lock and pushed it open again. He wasn't sure why he did it any more, Peter would never come for him, he was too old. But perhaps he would come for Sherlock, and Mycroft could meet him? There was nobody better suited for Neverland than his brother, he was sure.

But that would have to mean Peter was real, that Tinkerbell, Hook, Neverland was real. He knew there was no set 'second star to the right', for which counted as the first star? He knew the first 'star' in sight in the evenings was in fact a planet, so did that count, since Peter had been around since before that discovery? Or had the coordinates changed to compensate for it? First star next to the planet, and straight on until Neverland perhaps, for who knew what time Peter would come, so morning was surely a bad time scale.

This was exactly what he didn't want Sherlock to become; calculating, analysing… _adult_. As soon as he stopped believing in Peter, surely he wouldn't come. It stood to reason that he only came to those who believed.

Did Mycroft still believe? He'd certainly been thinking about him as though he did. Looking away from his window, an old book caught his attention. Stuffed haphazardly between a book on politics and another on mathematics was a fairly thin sea blue book. Darker blue capitals stood out on the spine between the worn creases, and against his will he found himself reaching for it above his desk, holding it carefully in his hands as if it might move or fall apart. He'd certainly read it enough times. As he opened it, his keen senses caught that old smell of books that he'd long associated with this book in particular. The silhouette on the front, classically resting his hands on his hips and legs set apart, surveying a golden beach, a ship on the horizon, pirates on one side of him in the distance and a girl and two boys in their pyjamas on the other. It all resonated in his memory so very well.

He still wanted to believe, much like children desperately want to believe in Santa Claus, but his belief was becoming more of a thin, weak hope. A hope that something would pull him out of this life before he was set to go back to boarding school on Monday. That somebody would stop him submitting to his fathers life plans, living the existence he'd desired through his son, and whisk him away to Neverland.

And those were his last thoughts as he rested his head on his arms at the desk, intending to simply rest his eyes before getting back to work. They were thoughts he often had before falling asleep, more often than he'd ever admit to himself or anybody else.

In the early hours of Saturday morning, not so long after the eldest Holmes brother fell asleep accidentally, a figure silently landed on the windowsill.

This was a strangely regular occurrence. Each night, the figure would open the window, sit inside for a while, and just look around. He'd attempted to make sense of the marks on the papers sprawled over the desk, but while he understood maths, this was far too advanced.

Tonight, there was something different. The figure wasn't simply here to sneak around. He usually visited a lot earlier, listened to the stories the boy at the desk told his younger brother. They were always fantastic, all about pirates, usually, or sometimes Indians. And Peter Pan was always the hero. It was refreshing to hear stories about Peter, for it had been such a long time since he'd been to Neverland and had those adventures, and to hear them from somebody else, to know Peter's legacy lived on in this house, well it was nothing short of fantastic.

He hadn't meant to discover these two boys. In truth, he'd been intending to visit Peter, but time moves faster in Neverland, and sometimes it doesn't move at all. He'd got it wrong, and instead of visiting Peter, he'd found the Holmes family, right where the Darling's had once been. Oh, if they knew the hero they spoke of so highly had run these halls, slept in that nursery, told those same stories.

But tonight, he was here to collect something of his. Ironic, really, that two shadows should have been lost in here when most houses go their entire existence without bodiless shadows roaming them. Luckily, his was a little less immature than Peter's, and had been smart enough to hide until he could collect it, lest he upset and disrupt the family in trying to retrieve it.

The window was always well oiled, and made hardly a sound as he pushed it up and stepped inside. Being in here always made him feel like he should have made more of an effort with his appearance, what with the boy always wearing a suit. If he wasn't careful, that boy would grow up. A horrible notion that must be avoided at all costs.

'I'm here.' He announced, barely above a whisper. There were the first words he'd uttered in these walls, and he realised if the boy was to wake up now, it would be somewhat of a shock to him. Carefully, he stepped back into the shadows, in hope to not scare him should he wake. 'Come on, I've come to get you.' There was no movement, but he kept looking anyway, unmoving until he had to, dirty shoes resting lightly on the floor so as not to make a mess but still give the idea of standing, not flying.

There! Of course… It was hiding under the desk, behind the boys legs. How on earth was he supposed to get to him now? Without waking the boy and kindly asking him to move, there was no way. 'Come on, you don't have to hide, we have to go.' He crouched, extending a hand in a friendly manner, trying to coax his shadow back over to him. 'Go home, yeah?'

And it was then that the boy stirred, squeezing his eyes shut and slowly opening them. The boy who shouldn't be there froze, biting his lip. This could have gone a little better.

Mycroft opened his eyes, trying to determine what had woken him. Blinking, sitting up slowly, he noticed a boy, about his age, crouched on the ground. He wore old jeans, covered in patches and sewn up haphazardly, torn off below the knee, with old black converse that had seen many a better day, but no sign of socks. Of course, he was probably wearing trainer socks. Nobody just wore trainers over bare feet. The laces that were once white were now a dull grey, the rubber was wearing away badly, but what caught his attention was the dagger tied with some old rope, what looked like the rope from a pirate ship, around his ankle. His tee was torn off at the shoulders to prevent sleeves, and torn again at the bottom, making it shorter than it maybe should be.

His hair, despite his age, was a shocking silver, spiked up with gel or grease, it was tough to tell from here. A gold earring in his right ear stood out beside his hair and lightly tanned skin, chocolate brown eyes staring worriedly at him.

'I'm not here to hurt you.' The boy stated, voice nicely rough, not as smooth as Mycroft's own.

'I should hope not. How on earth did you get in here without the alarm sounding? And what do you want?' The chances of him dreaming were high – he was rather sleep deprived – so he settled for just playing along.

'This is rather embarrassing, actually.' The boy stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, giving Mycroft clear view of the thin muscles he had. 'I… I lost my shadow in here a few days back, when your father locked the window. I got out, just in time, but my shadow didn't. Sounds cliché, I know.' He laughed hesitantly. 'It's… hiding under your desk.'

'Hiding…?' Mycroft scooted the chair back, and a shadow, matching the unnamed boy, crawled out, almost apologetically. 'Good lord.' It was making sense. 'Are you Peter Pan?' He had to be dreaming. Peter didn't look like this anyway.

'God, no. Nobody could be Peter Pan. We all just wish we are.'

'…We?'

'The lost boys and I.'

Mycroft blinked a few times, trying to understand. 'Right. I'm dreaming, clearly.'

'What makes you think you're dreaming?' The boy frowned absently, stepping forward, trying to coax the shadow back to him. 'Am I the boy of your dreams, or something?'

Mycroft couldn't fight the sudden blush that crept over him. He couldn't deny the boy was handsome, in a roguish way. The punkish element did wonders for him.

'Don't be absurd.' He laughed slightly. 'I just…. A lost boy. Really. Here. Why here?'

'To be fair, I wasn't here for you.'

Mycroft felt his stomach drop, like a Jolly Roger had just weighed anchor inside him. 'Oh.'

The boy's eyes widened. 'Oh, no! Not like that! I mean, I came to this house looking for Peter, actually. The Darling's used to live here, and Peter lived here too.'

He did remember something about a Darling family here, now. He'd dismissed it, at the time. Coincidences.

'But… You and your brother believe in him, and I liked hearing the stories, so I stuck around.'

Mycroft shook his head bemusedly and looked around at his room, at the book on his desk, and back to the boy wrapping his arms around his shadow.

'And we're certain I'm not dreaming?' He asked carefully. Trust his luck to have this fantastic dream and wake up just before they left for Neverland. The boy grinned cheekily, reaching forward. 'What're you- hey!' Mycroft rubbed his arm, glaring at the boy. 'Some warning, please.'

'If I warned you, you'd know and be able to dream up the reaction. So there. Not a dream.' He kept hold on the shadow's wrist and extended his arms. 'I'm the real thing,'

'You're a…. A lost boy.'

'Yes.'

'And you live in Neverland.'

'That's where lost boys live, yeah.' He frowned. 'Are you alright? You seem a little slow, and I know that's not normal.'

'Yes, I just…..' Carefully, Mycroft dipped his head to rest in his hands. 'You're real. After all this time.'

The boy made a sound that agreed with him wholeheartedly, and went about patting his pockets. 'Would you happen to have a few safety pins?'

'Why?' The boy gestured at his shadow, and lifted up the sole of his faded converse pointedly.

'Because I know soap doesn't work.'

That did it. Mycroft dissolved into laughter. Or, more to say, giggles. Yes, of course. Because Peter had used soap. Poor boy. The shadowless boy in front of him started laughing too, glad to see the suited house member laughing for once. It was so rare that he got to hear it, let alone see it.

'Yes. Yes, I think I do, hold on a moment.' Mycroft stood, smoothed his suit out of habit, and slipped out into the hallway, going to the bathroom to root through their mother's sewing box.

Back in his room, the boy from Neverland lifted himself into the air, crossed his legs, and landed silently on the bed. So this was a bedroom, properly. This was where regulation happened. Every night the boy would sleep here. He would work over there. He'd wear his different clothes in here. Oh, to have different clothes. To have this regulation.

He didn't quite share Peter's hatred for adults, but he did have a certain amount of distrust. It was a good job he got here now, judging by the suitcase near the door. Soon, he would go away again, wherever he always went. And so would his brother. And when he came back, he'd probably be grown up.

A shudder fell through the boy on the bed. He couldn't let that happen. That was a horrible fate he wouldn't wish upon anyone.

'Who are you?' A small voice demanded from the door. He turned his head in alarm, subconsciously floating into the air, ready to escape. 'Oh. You're Peter Pan, aren't you? You don't look like Myc says you do.'

'Oh, no. I'm Greg.' He landed himself on the floor, legs still crossed, in front of the little boy, marvelling at how easily he seemed to be taking this. 'Aren't you scared?'

'Why would I be scared? Peter must have sent you to take me and Myc to Neverland.' The boy smiled, curly auburn hair setting contrast to his pale skin and blue eyes. He hugged a sandy coloured bear, clad in a cable-knit sweater, to himself, and the smile turned to a grin. 'Can John come, too?'

'I don't see why not.' Greg laughed slightly. 'Would you like to come with me and be a lost boy?'

'Yes please!' The boy's eyes lit up. 'I'm Sherlock. And my brother is Mycroft.'

Greg frowned. Had he missed something? Were these normal names now? Was everybody called this or were the Holmes family just a bit odd?

'Well hello Sherlock. I'm afraid Peter isn't with us any more, though.' He smiled apologetically as Sherlock's expression fell.

'Why not? Is he okay?'

'Of course he is. You see…. He left Neverland, to be with Wendy, John and Michael. In fact, he came here. To this very house.' He watched Sherlock's eyes widen almost comically. 'Do you know the previous owners of this house? Care to guess at their names?'

'Darling.' He breathed excitedly. 'You mean Peter was here? Actually here? All this time?'

Greg nodded, resisting the urge to coo over the boy. 'We all used to come and visit. He stayed in the nursery.'

'That's where I sleep!' Sherlock looked around, as if yearning to tell Mycroft. 'Myc?!'

Mycroft appeared in the door, gently pushing Sherlock inside and closing the door behind him. 'What, Sherlock? And don't shout like that, you don't want to wake father, now, do you?' Sherlock quietened immediately. 'Now what did you want?'

'Greg told me Peter Pan used to sleep in the nursery! Maybe he was where I sleep!'

Mycroft smiled. 'Yes, maybe.' His face tilted towards Greg. 'Greg? That's your name? Not very…. Lost boy, is it?'

'If we're starting on names, _Mycroft_….' Greg teased, happy when it cut off Mycroft's remarks. 'Now, those pins.' Once they were in his hand, Greg shook the shadow, lining it's feet up with his, and carefully secured them in place with the safety pins. Once done, he stood, lifted himself off the ground enough to flick his shadow onto the wall, and experimentally lifted an arm, tutting when it took a few moments to be followed. 'Come on, now. Don't play about.' He scorned. This time, the shadow copied his movements exactly, as if fearful of what would happen if it disobeyed.

'Right. Um…. Sherlock, can I talk to your brother for a moment?' Greg turned to smile at Sherlock in what he hoped was a winning fashion. The little boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

'You're not planning to leave without me, are you?'

'No, of course not. I don't offer for people to be lost boys and run off without them. I'm not cruel.'

That seemed to be enough, and Sherlock ran off, presumably to get some shoes. Greg turned to Mycroft, keeping his voice low. 'Mycroft, Neverland has… Well, it's changed, since Peter left, since the stories you know. Have you ever read Peter Pan in Scarlet?'

Mycroft frowned. 'A long time ago. It was too painful and I haven't gone near it since. Neverland was so broken.' His eyes widened, much like his brother's. 'Neverland is broken?'

'Not so much broken. I take it you've noticed I'm not exactly the same age as Peter. I had to change the barrier to get into Neverland, and the age we all are. Being ten isn't enough any more. We can't handle Neverland at ten.' He bit his lip. 'What I'm saying is that I'm not sure about Sherlock. If you think he should come with us, fine. I'll go with that. But I don't want to bring him into it without warning. It wouldn't be fair. More to the point, are you sure _you_ want to come away?'

Mycroft nodded immediately. 'Yes. Of course. I don't care what state it's in, I need to see it. So what's changed?'

'Well. Hook, for one thing. He's left, now. He got taken over not long after Peter left, but this guy called Jim Moriarty. And he isn't as easy as Hook. This guy means business.' He shook his head, remembering how scared they'd been when he'd taken over. 'I think he killed Hook, too. We found his hat, some of his clothes…. Some of _him_.'

Mycroft hid his repulsion well enough. 'So… It's really quite different, now.'

'Yes. We've had to move base a lot of times, since he keeps finding us. But it isn't all bad, honestly.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'We still have treasure hunts, mermaids, Indians. We still play games all the time and just generally have fun, but I felt the need to warn you.'

'Well, thank you for the warning.' Mycroft smiled. 'I think I'll risk it. And I've no doubt Sherlock will, too.' As if waiting for the right moment, Sherlock slipped back into the room, dressed now in a purple shirt and black trousers. His shoes were supposed to be smart and black but were covered in mud, as were his trousers.

'No point ruining a new set of clothes, so I picked out the ones mummy made me put in the washing.' He smiled proudly, holding the paw of his bear tightly. 'I'm ready.'

Glancing at Mycroft, Greg lowered himself to Sherlock's height. 'It's not like the stories, Sherlock. Neverland is darker, more dangerous. You might be hurt, or worse.'

'I don't care.' Sherlock lifted his chin slightly, trying to look taller and older. 'I can handle anything those pirates throw at me.'

Greg smiled. 'Alright, then. Hold on.' He ducked his head out of the window, whistling once, sharply. Moments later a ball of light no bigger than a fist flew into the room.

'Is that Tink?' Sherlock asked excitedly, jumping when the light stopped inches from his face. 'Oh. I'm sorry.' He apologised.

'This is Dimmock. Tink came here with Peter, and Dimmock took over.' Greg gestured the little figure to land on his shoulder. Now he stopped moving, Mycroft could see he was dressed in brown, in a long sleeve shirt with lightly brown cuffs and what almost looked like suede trousers and shoes. 'Dimmock, these two boys are coming back with us.'

Mycroft and Sherlock grinned at each other. They were really going to Neverland. They were leaving this behind to go and have adventures, and not grow up. It was more than Mycroft had thought possible. Not only was it real, but the lost boys wanted _him_.

Dimmock nodded, and hovered above Sherlock first. A low sound, like a bell being rung, chimed out, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft realised then that it had been Dimmock talking, and Sherlock seemed to understand him.

'Appears you already speak fey.' Greg sounded as surprised as Mycroft felt. 'Nobody's been able to instantly understand like that.' Sherlock shrugged as the gold dust began to fall over him, landing on his skin, his clothes, disappearing into his hair and then fading within moments. 'Now, you know what to do.' Greg stated and Sherlock began floating. He laughed happily, hitting the ceiling, and spun to sit on it, craning his neck back to look down at the both. 'And now Mycroft, please.'

Closing his eyes, Mycroft tried to remember what this felt like. Surreal, for one thing. But also…. Like when you walk into a spiderweb by accident. It clings to you, fits your skin easily, rests on you like another layer. It was like that, but nicer, since there was no fear of spiders joining the fun. Opening his eyes, he shook his head slightly, laughing at the gold and silver dust, finer than anything he'd seen before, as it drifted around him in a shimmering haze.

'Well. Are you ready to go, then?' Greg smiled, standing by the window.

'I think we are.' Mycroft looked around his room one last time, and thought of his mother. What would she say? He found he didn't much care. Not any more. She was just as bad as his father, trying to force him to be somebody he wasn't.

'Okay then, here we go!' In a completely showman fashion, Greg lifted himself off the ground, onto his back, and managed to glide effortlessly through the window, looking back at them.

'Show off.' Mycroft laughed, hanging onto the happiness inside and letting it rise him, noticing Sherlock doing the same to his right. He climbed out of the window, looking down at the street below, and let himself fall.

Except he wasn't falling. He was flying. Over the houses opposite, to wards the figure encased by moonlight just ahead, laughing and spinning like an expert aeroplane show. A Red Arrow performance. The wind was in his hair, intimately combing through it, the cool night air holding onto him, keeping him up, allowing him to simply cut through the air. Beside him, Sherlock was laughing, flying up and over, then around Mycroft in a barrel roll. No matter what Neverland had in store, it would be so worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

Flying. He was actually flying. It wasn't quite what he'd expected, but then how did he expect it to feel? He wanted to liken it to swimming, but that didn't seem quite right. It was more like that terrible moment when you miss a step, or when you're ascending them in the dark and misjudge, thinking there's one more step than there is. Your gravity gets thrown off balance, you don't quite know which way is up, and your stomach lurches, expecting the very worst. But you know it's all absurd, you're not going to die from flying with a lost boy any more than you are from thinking there's one more step than there really is.

Sherlock seemed to be taking to it a bit easier than he was. He supposed, somewhat bitterly, that it was just because he was younger, that his faith was stronger, that he was able to be happier, because he didn't have the heaviness of adulthood beating onto his shoulders, weighing down his waistcoat and slowly hanging him by his tie. The worst part was that he'd come to like the suits. The way he gained adult's respect by wearing it, became more trusted. His views weren't tossed aside uselessly like a child's.

In truth, he felt like a child wearing his dad's suit, trying to be grown up and only half managing it. Well, grown ups weren't allowed in Neverland, so he had to try to forget that.

'You alright, Myc?' A voice directly above him asked, and Mycroft switched his gaze from staring at the land below him to flipping, looking up. Greg was flying incredibly close to him, nearly chest to chest, smiling slightly with a look of concern in his eyes. 'You're slowing down.'

So he was. Nearly stopping, in fact. All that adult thought must have affected him. 'Yes. I'm… I'm fine.' It was difficult to concentrate with the boy so close, his own loose tee resting over Mycroft's blazer.

'You don't look so fine. In fact you look… Grown up.' The words were said with vague distaste, as if he was regretting his decision. Mycroft felt the anchor in his stomach again. Greg was right. He wasn't cut out for Neverland. He should go back to being a politician in the making, to being miserable and working behind a boring desk, with all the other boring grown ups.

'Hey. Hey…' Greg's hands connected with Mycroft's forearms suddenly, and Mycroft recognised the wind rushing past his ears wasn't moving with him, more past him from above. He'd been falling. The very opposite of flying, of Neverland, of childhood. 'Careful, there.'

'I- I'm sorry. I'm not good at this. For this.' Mycroft shook his head, still not quite flying alone.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock flew in time with them, to one side, clutching John tightly and frowning. 'Myc?'

'It's fine, Sherlock. Go ahead for us, yeah?' Greg smiled reassuringly. 'You know he way. Your brother and I are just talking.' Sherlock nodded, flying ahead with ease and clearly choosing to ignore the strong grip Greg had to Mycroft to stop him heading down to the Thames below them. Greg, meanwhile, flipped in the air so Mycroft was using him as support. Instinctively, he clung onto Greg around his waist.

'Don't worry.' Greg laughed, resting his arms folded behind his head. 'I won't drop you. I'm not an idiot.' Regardless, Mycroft was too sensible to let go of his death grip. 'Mycroft, I know why you stopped flying.' His voice was quiet, calm. 'You started thinking about hold adult you are, how much of a grown up you are. You stopped believing in yourself. You need to let go a little, honestly. You're perfect for Neverland.'

'But… I'm not. I'm not fun at all. I hardly smile, hardly laugh. Look at me, I'm not exactly a child any more.'

'Neither am I.'

'But you're happy, I never am.'

'Maybe this is exactly what you need.' Greg smiled, wrapping his arms around to hold onto Mycroft's hands and pull them free, holding both their arms out to either side, a like kid pretending to be an aeroplane. He quickly hooked his legs around Mycroft's, twisting their arms enough to hold onto him tightly, and started spinning.

The wind was rushing past his ears again, glimpses of the land below him, above him, to the side, were disappearing fast, becoming smaller and smaller until the houses were impossible to make out, and they were hitting the clouds, being covered in a fine layer of mist, drenching their clothes delicately. He tried shouting for Greg to stop, he was going to fall, he was going to _die_. But his complaints were mysteriously stolen from his lips, vanished before they had to chance to reach Greg's ears, lost in the space they had just occupied, plucked and hidden within the clouds. Instead, he found himself laughing, laughing so much he could hardly breathe. Like all the laughter he'd been prevented by his father was being released as he got closer and closer to Neverland, further and further from the clutches of adulthood.

And just like that, they broke through the clouds. Glancing back was like looking at a solid yet soft substance. The only proof they'd been through it was a big tear in the fabric of the cloud and their clothes that were sticking together and to their skin. Beside their own tear was a slightly smaller one that Sherlock must have made.

Looking up, Mycroft saw all the stars were still a long way away, twinkling down at them as if laughing gleefully with him, a part of their secret, a part of the journey to Neverland that every lost boy took. That Peter had taken many a time. They were following the path of their hero. Scratch that, he was about to stay on the same island as Peter, had been living for his whole life if the same house as him! One star was getting closer though, and looking like less of a star. He could only describe it as a supernova. Colours of all types, some he had never seen before and couldn't begin to actively describe, that hadn't been discovered yet by grown ups but could only be noticed by children, were spreading out of the centre, which was both dark and bright. Small and yet bigger than anything he'd seen before. It seemed to be rapidly approaching but simultaneously drifting further away.

'Sherlock!' Greg called, his voice reverberating through his chest, allowing Mycroft to feel it as well as hear it. 'Come back for a minute, here's where it gets tricky.'

Sherlock did as asked, flying alongside them again, grinning madly, his hair a mess around his pale face. 'That's it, isn't it? The portal.'

Greg laughed cheerily. 'Yes. A portal, I suppose that's a good way of describing it. You're going to have to hold onto me, okay? Both of you are.' Without warning he let go of Mycroft, dropping a few meters below him. Mycroft was suspended in mid air, and for a moment he was sure he'd fall again, back through the clouds that he knew weren't going to catch him, all the way back to London, to the pavement that he'd spread himself across exaggeratedly as his final act.

But no, Greg said he wouldn't. He wasn't going to get to the entrance to Neverland only to give it up like this. No way. He was going to get to Neverland, and he wasn't going to let his maturity stop him. Greg laughing again brought him back to reality, and he realised his was standing on the air. It was a strange sensation, being suspended over nothing without so much as a harness. It was magnificent.

'See? I told you you could do it!' Greg clapped, flying over him in a loop and stopping in front of him, extending a hand slowly, eyes growing serious. 'Both of you, I need to ask one more time. I'm not like Peter, I don't just whisk people off without thinking about it. Are you very sure you want to do this? Just getting into Neverland is dangerous. There's a chance you won't make it to land.'

The words chilled Mycroft to the bone, yet intrigued him. 'I don't want either of you to have to go on without the other. If I'm unable to go with you, just keep going forward. Don't stop until you reach Neverland. When you do, stay out of view of the ship.' It was like giving orders to an army, Mycroft realised, but this wasn't a game. 'Try to look around. Can you whistle? Good. Make a low whistle, at this pitch.' He paused, whistling one note. 'And the twins will find you. They should be on duty. Now, are you very sure you want to do this?'

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, who was staring at the portal, still exuding the colours he wasn't able to comprehend. He wondered if Sherlock saw more of them than he did. If it pulsed for him like it did for Mycroft. Sherlock looked entranced, like nothing else would do for him. He couldn't go back, and neither could Mycroft. He nodded determinedly, taking Greg's wrist tightly, gripping it as Greg did the same. 'We're quite sure.'

Greg smiled at them, repeating the action with Sherlock. 'Well then, let's go to Neverland. Stay as close as you can.'

They set of into the portal at a run, and Mycroft expected more that a simple sensation of being ripped apart and put back together again at the same time as being squashed into one single atom and blown apart. But suddenly the sky was grey instead of inky black, and a solitary island was spread beneath them.

And a cannonball flew straight over their heads, narrowly missing Greg's hair to such a degree that his hair ruffled with something other than natural air.


	3. Chapter 3

Instinctively, Greg pushed the two Holmes brothers' behind him, and started flying straight down, towards the trees in the middle of Neverland.

'Stay close!' He shouted over his shoulder, dragging them down a few feet to miss the next canon, this time managing to be clear by a few feet rather than inches.

Before he really knew where he was headed, Mycroft found himself falling rather than flying, through the top layers of tree, and he had no idea which way was up any more, just that he was heading the floor and would probably reach it soon.

As he'd thought, moments later, he hit the ground landing face down, and while he sat up to pat himself down, Sherlock fell in a heap beside him, and Greg floated elegantly with no effort. The bastard.

'I gave you fair warning.' Greg told them apologetically. 'I hadn't expected him to find us so quickly, though, sorry.'

'It's alright.' Mycroft sat up, looking around. He was actually in Neverland. It was real, and he was here. His incredulous thoughts were interrupted by a low sharp whistle, and moments later a distant thrashing, like somebody running, pushing undergrowth aside.

'Here come the twins.' Greg stated, stepping away from the edge of the clearing as two boys fell through the edge of the tree line, scrambling to stand up in front of Greg, right hands held in a salute. 'Mycroft, Sherlock, this is Alex and Zak, they've been here nearly as long as I have.'

Mycroft took a moment to take the two in. It was like looking at a mirror of opposites. One had a shock of unruly inky black hair, the other almost platinum blond. The dark haired boy had a slightly sharper face, whereas the other was slightly rounder. The blond had mesmerising pale eyes, the other dark brown, but not like Greg's. Alex, the fair haired, had a leather jacket on with a tank shirt beneath, and Zak had a black shirt, rolled up and a crooked top hat accessorised with goggles and black skinny jeans. It was like Zak had come from the past and Alex from the modern time. Both had infectious grins, but it was painfully clear they weren't twins, and brothers was barely possible.

'Wotcha,' Zak grinned as Alex greeted 'hullo' to them both at the same time.

'Did I just hear canons?' Zak frowned.

'Of course you did, idiot. What else would sound exactly like a canon in Neverland?' Alex joked. Zak blushed angrily, mumbling at him to shut up.

'Can you escort these two new companions to your hideout?' Greg asked, helping Mycroft up and doing the same for Sherlock. 'They're firm fans of Peter, so I imagine you're the person to talk to, Zak.' Greg smiled. 'And if you're interested in Jim, just ask Alex, he's quite the expert.'

'I- Um-' Alex floundered, nodding in the end, admitting it. 'I guess I am. Where are you going?'

'Just need to check the Indians are alright. Then I'll be back.' Greg smiled again, reassuringly. 'See you all soon.' With that, he turned, running off in the direction the twins had appeared.

'You're the Holmes boys, aren't you?' Zak asked carefully, frowning at them. 'You're different that I imagined.'

'In what way?' Mycroft straightened his waist coat with as much dignity as he could muster.

'Well… I don't know. You seem a little…' He paused, as if scared to speak. 'Grown up.' Those two words again, that seemed to revolve around Mycroft like a disease. Alex's hand flew up over Zak's mouth, but it was too late, the words had been said. Mycroft turned, his stomach sinking once more, suit feeling constricting, but like he couldn't remove it even if he tried.

'Hey, where're you going?' Alex called. 'Look, we're sorry, just… Don't wander off, please. Greg'll kill us, and it's not safe to be here alone, especially if you don't know your way.'

It was common knowledge that since Neverland is where children play and live, every child knows their way around Neverland. It's built into their memories, their feet know where to go without being asked to do so. They could easily navigate the way to Mermaid Lagoon if that's where you wanted to go, or get you to the path that lead to the Indians. To suggest he may not know his way was another way of saying he may have forgotten, like every kid does as they grow up. It's one of those things that you forget as you reach adulthood. Like the colours. He just wanted to get far away, to give himself time. He wasn't grown up, no way. 'Look, I'll be alright. I can handle myself.' He muttered. 'Stay with the twins, Sherlock.'

'Look, I really think you should-'

'I'll find my way back on my own. Just… Give me a little while.' He pushed the leaves aside, stepping into the undergrowth and instantly starting to feel a little better. He was alone, sure, and that wasn't ideal, but at least he could think clearly now.

Could Greg have made a bad decision? Maybe he really wasn't supposed to be here. Greg said the twins had been in Neverland almost as long as he had, surely they knew what they were talking about when they said he looked grown up.

The one thing he'd been desperate to avoid, and now he was being told he hadn't avoided it at all. But Neverland was only for the young, right? Surely that counted for something. He couldn't have got this far if he wasn't supposed to be here. Yes, that was worth keeping in mind. Oh, now he was reasoning. What a perfectly _adult_ thing to do.

Shaking his head, Mycroft reached a clearing and realised he hadn't been keeping track. He tried to think, to decide which way felt natural, since maybe that would be the way to the hideout. But his inner Lost Boy, if he still existed, had nothing to contribute.

Instead, he thought about Greg. About how they'd flown here together, so he couldn't slip up and fall down. He couldn't disappoint Greg's judgment. Kicking off slightly, Mycroft levitated into the air, concentrating on flying above the trees to look for somewhere the Greg might choose as a hideout. Or anywhere that could count as a landmark so he at least had some form of plan. If he found a well known place, the Lost Boys would come across him.

Shaking his head, he remembered this is exactly how Wendy got into Neverland. Tinkerbell flew ahead while Peter terrorised the Pirates, and Wendy got shot down because Tink told them it was a game. Dimmock wouldn't do that, would he? He didn't seem the type. And who would be jealous of him, like Tink was of Wendy?

He heard voices somewhere below, and before he had the chance to look down, arrows were being shot up at him. One hit his chest, grazed his skin enough to hurt. The sudden pain and shock of the situation was enough to break his concentration, and send him plummeting to the ground for the second time, with nobody to catch him.

The ground was harder than before, he was sure of it. Or maybe it was just the way his head hit and knocked his consciousness out of him.

'You idiots!' Greg scorned the two brothers, who were cowering away from him. It wasn't often that their leader was angry, but when he was, he made sure everyone knew. 'You shouldn't have let him out of your sight!'

'He was pretty determined.' Alex admitted. 'We tried to stop him. But we can't exactly force him to stay with us.'

'Alright, fine. But I'm not happy about what happened. Now, you lot.' Greg turned, and it was the turn of the rest of the Lost Boys to shrink. 'What the fuck were you thinking?'

'You know you've warned us about new faces.' One boy with a nasally voice and a center parting stated. 'He looked grown up.'

'Shut up, Anderson.' The other boys chorused, then started shouting over one another, trying uselessly to redeem themselves. Greg waited three seconds, hands rested on his hips, before throwing them into the air and declaring enough.

'I don't even care any more. You're just lucky he's not dead, otherwise you'd all be send to Moriarty and he'd be free to do what he wants to you. Maybe he'd even give you all the same treatment as the crocodile.' The Boys yelled in distaste. 'Oh, shut up. You'd deserve it. Now get lost, all of you. Except Sherlock. The rest of you, I don't want you back here any time soon. Mycroft needs to rest. I'll whistle when you all can come back. You'd better all feel guilty.'

The Lost Boys nodded, going their separate ways and leaving Greg and Sherlock with Mycroft, who was still laying unconscious on Greg's wide bed on top of the large leaves that served as covers. Carefully, Greg knelt beside him, unbuttoning his waistcoat and then his shirt, biting his lip as he surveyed the wound. It was about two inches, maybe three, and it wasn't so deep to be worrying. 'I'm sorry.' He murmured. He'd never imagined the danger to come from his own boys.

Gently, he cleaned the wound, asking Sherlock to go look for something in the main room that he knew wasn't there. He also knew Sherlock wouldn't stop looking, so he'd be out of the way. It was clear seeing his brother hurt was distressing him, and Greg couldn't think of a better way to get him to leave and still be kind, not using the 'I'm older' technique, since it was more of an insult to himself in Neverland. Soon the wound was clean and, using cotton torn from an old sheet into strips, he wondered how to about bandaging him. The twins would probably know about this sort of thing.

Just then, Mycroft's eyes opened slowly. Before he could move, Greg placed a hand softly onto his chest, far from the cut. 'I wouldn't do that, if I were you.'

Frowning, Mycroft looked down, eyes widening at the sight of the cut that was starting to draw blood again. 'I… I was shot down.'

'Yes, sorry about that. My stupid team didn't realise you're one of us. New face and all that.' He shrugged, not daring to bring up their other reason that Anderson had so unhelpfully supplied.

'It's not that.' Mycroft sighed, looking at the ceiling. 'It's because I look grown up.' They both knew it, he was just admitting it.

'Will you stop saying that?' Greg scowled at him. 'I wouldn't bring you here if you were grown up. Neverland wouldn't let you in if you were. Nobody knows how the pirates got here. The theory is that they fell. I'm not overly sure what that means, but that's what Peter used to say. They fell into Neverland, not by choice. That's why they're so angry all the time, because they never asked to get here, they gave up the thought of being Lost Boys so long ago that they became bitter.' As he spoke, his voice became quieter, he crouched closer, as if sharing a great secret with Mycroft.

'When they fall into Neverland they're so angry that it took them so long, they don't enjoy it any more. They only feel remorse because we're all so young and we can fly but they can't, because they're grown up. Pirates are the Lost Boys that arrived too late and have to pay the price for it.' He was now nearly whispering, his voice so low it was like smooth gravel. 'Other stories go on to suggest that they all wanted to be Lost Boys so desperately but were bad, so Peter wouldn't come and get them. This is their penance, being so close to Neverland but never able to be a Lost Boy.'

Mycroft stared up at Greg, only inches away from his face, and tried to remember to breathe. He wasn't sure what was happening, but suddenly he wanted to get closer, wanted Greg to close the gap between them. He felt on fire but ice cold at the same time.

Greg stared back at him, eyes seeming to be darker and staring at him so intensely he couldn't get himself to look away. He had no idea how long they spent like that, just staring at each other, but a noise from the next room woke them, as if from a trance, and Greg blinked once, twice, mouth twitching in a vague smile.

'I ought to get you bandaged up.' He breathed, ghosting over Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft nodded, not knowing what else to do in reply, and found himself missing the closeness, the way his skin seemed to crackle at being so close to Greg's, as he leaned back. 'I need you to sit up, so I can wrap this bandage around you.' He held up the loosely ripped cloth, smiling modestly. 'It's not much, but it will do.'

Mycroft nodded, slowly sitting up, wincing as his vision blacked out momentarily and he got a throbbing sensation in his head, just behind his eyes. 'I think I hit my head… Thinking hurts.'

'Well, you're a bit lost then, since that's all you do.' Greg smiled. 'A lost boy, you might say.' Mycroft laughed slightly, rubbing the back of his head slowly, blinking a few times to get his vision back. Greg crawled around to sit behind him, carefully pulling the blazer from his shoulders and folding it clumsily on the bed. Mycroft stilled, amazed at the idea that Greg was now sat behind him, so very close, legs sprawled either side of his own.

Next was his waistcoat, folded with the same crude approximation of neatness as the blazer. Lastly, his shirt. As the soft cotton slipped over his shoulders and across his skin, Mycroft realised he'd never actually been this vulnerable before. He'd never undressed in front of people, and now Greg was just casually pulling away the layers on his torso to reveal the cut, his frightfully pale skin, the freckles dotting his back in some unknown constellation pattern that could never be pieced together but had a million stories to each collections.

Greg reached around his waist, momentarily encasing him in his arms. His chest pressed against his back for the briefest of moments, and Mycroft dared to imagine he could feel Greg's pulse. The bandage was slowly wrapped around him, with Greg leaning against him each time he reached back around to his chest again. Once he was finished, and Mycroft was securely bandaged, Greg fumbled a little with the safety pin he pulled from nowhere, having to edge closer until he was completely pressed up behind Mycroft, resting his chin on his shoulder to see what he was doing.

'You're very quiet.' Greg commented, voice still low.

'Not much to add, that's all.' Mycroft wasn't sure how he was still talking. He could feel himself melting back against Greg, closing his eyes, resting his head against Greg's shoulder. Greg hummed in agreement, his hands straying to rest absently at Mycroft's waist when he finished.


	4. Chapter 4

'How do you feel?' Greg asked, voice so quiet Mycroft had to strain to hear him. It was still at that low pitch that made him want to just do whatever Greg were to ask of him.

'A little tired, and my chest hurts.' He admitted. He saw no point in lying to Greg, especially if it was just them alone. Greg made a soft understanding sound, hand drifting up to press lightly over the bandages concealing the cut, the other wrapping around his waist securely. There was a slight shift, as the Lost Boy slotted Mycroft better against him, bringing up his legs like a three-sided cage when combined with his chest, four counting the arm, except Mycroft found he had no intentions of escaping any time soon.

'I'm sorry they did that, you know.' Greg's thumb softly brushed over the line of the cut. 'It wasn't my intention at all. The twins… They sometimes don't quite know what they're saying. But they're both brilliant, really.'

Mycroft nodded, knowing he was close enough to not need to do anything else. He had no idea what this bed was made of, but it was incredibly comfortable, and Greg's chest was warm, solid, secure.

'You should sleep, Mycroft. You need your energy here in Neverland.' The smile was evident in his voice.

'Where am I sleeping?' He wasn't sure about sleeping in the main room with the Lost Boys, since they'd already outted him as 'grown up', which was the most offensive thing you could say in Neverland. 'I don't want to be in the way.'

'Well I'd suggest you sleep with the others, but…' Mycroft opened his eyes slowly, the pause giving him the faintest hope. But what was he hoping for? He wasn't entirely convinced what exactly, but it sounded promising. 'But I'm not completely sure it'll be the best idea. You need rest, and they take a while to settle down sometimes. Perhaps you're better off in here… with me.' It sounded like a flimsy reason, Mycroft thought, but he wasn't one to argue.

'I suppose that's acceptable.' Mycroft grinned openly. Greg laughed, really properly laughed, and Mycroft could feel his chest moving against his back. Maybe they'd sleep like this, laying down? Or was that too much to hope for? Mycroft had long since accepted that women didn't interest him, but falling for a Lost Boy? Surely that was very far from what he'd expected. He'd been thinking he'd fall for a lawyer, a banker, maybe a well known Shakespearian actor if he was feeling ambitious, or a politician, since that's what he was going to be.

Well, he wasn't any more, was he? He was a Lost Boy. He didn't need to worry about being an adult, that's what Neverland was all about.

'Stop that.' Greg murmured, continuing when the silence stated Mycroft wanted him to continue. 'Stop thinking like a grown up, with all those thoughts about things that don't concern children and kids.'

'How can you tell?'

'When you're thinking about things that upset you your shoulders tense up and you frown really seriously. Just here.' His left hand raised from the bandage to the skin between Mycroft's eyes, resting over the crease in the skin caused by frowning.

'I… I hadn't even noticed that before. I do sometimes get headaches.'

'Well if you didn't worry so much, you probably wouldn't.' Greg replied easily. 'Now, I need to tell the Lost Boys they can come back but they aren't to disturb you. We'll probably play something this evening, if you care to join us, but rest first.' He scrambled off the bed, but not before Mycroft was 75% sure soft lips grazed the back of his neck. Greg stayed in the room, pulling back the heavy thick leaves that were coated in a sort of natural material that strongly resembled soft quilting. Smiling thankfully, Mycroft slipped off his shoes and crawled under the covers, finding himself surrounded by Greg's scent. It was heady, a constant presence that he desperately didn't want to replace with his own. Within moments of laying down, Mycroft fell asleep, smiling.

Greg walked calmly up to the entrance of their hideout, thinking about this sudden turn of events. He hadn't expected to feel like this about somebody, especially not the uptight suited almost-man that he'd rescued from the evil clutches of adulthood. He'd heard his father talking a few days ago, knew it wouldn't be long until he was swept off somewhere that wasn't the old Darling household, and he feared that when he returned, Greg would be too late.

It was close enough as it was. He almost didn't make it, what with the difficult time scale between Neverland and the other world. Peter had complained of the same problem, going to visit Wendy and suddenly finding that she was an adult, with two children. He didn't want that to happen with Mycroft. What if he'd been too late, and Mycroft was grown up, and didn't want Greg to take him to Neverland any more? Anything could have happened.

But it hadn't, he'd been in time, and now Mycroft was hurt because his own Lost Boys were complete idiots. Like Jim would be able to make one of his men fly? And so openly. It was absurd. They hadn't been thinking.

Once he was outside, he flew up above the trees, grinning to himself before spreading himself in the sky, crowing like Peter had taught him so long ago. It was a tradition he was completely willing to uphold. He heard it reflect from the trees, sounding almost exactly like when Peter did it and all the Lost Boys would come running. He stayed spread eagled in the sky for a moment before coming back to the ground, crossing his legs as he touched the ground to end up cross legged on the floor, waiting.

It didn't take long before everyone was before him, all looking suitably guilty. He located Sherlock, with Zak, the two of them cutting off what seemed to be a conversation about pirates so that they could listen to Greg.

'Alright, you lot. You know what happened today, even if you weren't responsible for it, or even there. I just need to tell you all, if that happens again, I'm sending whoever is to blame to the Reichenbach.' There was a shocked silence; they all knew he wasn't joking in the slightest.

'And while we're all here, I'll have no more of this talk about Mycroft being grown up. There's no way we can convince him he isn't yet, which he clearly isn't if he got here, if you're all telling him he is.' He looked at each of them, noting with grim satisfaction that the twins were looking down at the floor guiltily. Sherlock was staring up at him with complete attention. It was rather sweet really, he decided.

'I brought Mycroft here, with his brother, so that we could teach him that he doesn't have to grow up, not yet, not ever. He has enough hanging over him without Lost Boys telling him he's too old to be here, before long he'd start to believe it, and then the cause is lost. And I'm not going to let that happen. Do I make myself clear?' They all nodded in unison. 'Good. He's sleeping right now, and this evening when we play whatever game we decide on, he may come join us.' The implication was clear, they were all to be on their best behaviour. 'Mycroft is one of us now, it's our job to help him to realise that himself.'

They all nodded, and Greg sighed, nodding. 'Any sign of Jim's crew joining us on land?'

'None.' Alex supplied. The others agreed mutely, evidently still feeling a bit bad for not welcoming one of their newest members.

'Alright then. You're all free to go on as you please.' Greg nodded to them, running a hand through his hair. Everyone turned, going back to whatever they'd been doing, except Sherlock, who walked over to him, still holding John by the paw. 'Hello Sherlock.' He smiled.

'Hey.' Sherlock bit his lip, as if unsure how to ask something. 'Can… Tonight, can we play Pirates?' He looked up at Greg through his hair, grinning hesitantly. Greg made a show of frowning, thinking it over, umming and ahhing.

'Oh, I don't know. I'm not sure I'm in a Pirate mood… I'm not sure I'd make a good enough Captain.' He didn't miss how Sherlock's eyes lit up at the implied suggestion. 'Wait… Don't reckon you could, do you? Be Captain, I mean. You'll have to keep the crew in line. It's not an easy job, Sherlock.'

Sherlock nodded seriously, eyes still shining happily. 'I'll do my very best.' He told Greg solemnly. 'I'll stop them all being bad Pirates. If they are I'll make them walk the plank!' He pointed, as it the plank in question was some way off in the distance.

'I've no doubt you will.' Greg smiled. 'I look forward to serving you, Captain.' He saluted, and Sherlock grinned, running off after the twins as if he already belonged.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft was woken by the sound of his brother yelling about weighing the anchor in another room, and for a few moments he thought he was home again, that he had a lot of homework to do. Father would lecture him on sleeping in his suits, and Sherlock was going to be in a lot of trouble, yelling like that of a morning. Unless it wasn't morning and he'd slept through to the afternoon? God, he was so far behind!

Sitting up, the first thing Mycroft noticed was the air on his bare shoulders. Looking down, he noticed the bandage, the large 'quilt', and heard other voices with Sherlock's. He was in Neverland, with Sherlock. And Greg.

Oh, Greg. He wondered if that had really happened. And was he really sleeping here later on? He didn't even know what time it was. Yawning, he swung his feet over to the ground, shrugging into his shirt but not bothering to button it up. Mycroft walked carefully into the next room, head still throbbing from hitting his head earlier, a little unsteady on his feet.

'Myc!' A voice shouted as soon as he was in the doorway. Sherlock attached himself to Mycroft's chest happily, flying away from the ground to be the same height. 'I'm the Pirate Captain.' He declared, a fact evident from his tri-pointed hat, but Mycroft went along with it anyway.

'Are you really?' He held Sherlock at arms length, easier now the boy was holding himself in the air. 'What's your name?'

'Captain Holmes, obviously! I'm not having some silly nickname.' Sherlock squirmed until he was let go, turning in mid air to look at his crew. 'Fall in!' He commanded, grinning as they all did just that. 'Men, this is my brother, Mycroft. First mate Gregory, you take over with introductions.' He dropped to the floor, taking Greg's place as the other boy came to stand by Mycroft. 'Wait.' Sherlock stepped out of the line again, looking down it. 'You there, you're not a Lost _Boy_.'

'Well they're not all boys, strictly speaking, but they're very keen.' Greg explained, smiling. 'And her name is Sally.'

Sally nodded her hello's, dark curly hair cut fairly close to her head and bouncing as her head moved.

'Next is Anderson.' There was a hint of resignation in his tone that told Mycroft that he was the one in the group that nobody really liked. His hair was parted in the middle, flicking out on either side, and he had a few freckles that didn't make sense with his complexion at all. He nodded, lips quirking into a cold smile that Mycroft chose to ignore.

'And then, Adric.' Adric raised a hand in a two fingered, half arsed salute, smiling cockily, one cold grey eye covered by a pirate eyepatch. It wasn't like Anderson's, this was more friendly. Or rather, it was like you didn't want to trust him, but you couldn't help yourself. '…Jake.'

Jake had fair hair, blue eyes, and an open smile, hands in his pockets casually. Jake nodded his head to Adric. 'Ignore anything cheeky he says to you, we're pretty sure he can't help it.'

'And the last edition that you haven't met yet, Benjamin.' Ben looked about 12, making him the youngest until Sherlock arrived, with green eyes and a soft, kind face. He was standing a little close to Sherlock, suggesting they'd become friends already.

'Leaving the twins, who you know, and Dimmock, who's around here somewhere.' Greg waved his hand absently at the twins, who nodded in sync at Mycroft, both smiling. 'So that's my team. I sometimes call them my Yarders, on account of a Detective game we play sometimes. We all work at Scotland Yard.'

Mycroft nodded, raising his hand slightly in greeting. 'So, Mycroft, care to join us for a game?' He turned to Mycroft, and something in his eyes told him Greg was really suggesting it. Either for the good of the team morale or just for the fun.

'I don't see why not.' Mycroft grinned, rolling up his sleeves.

Hours later, everybody grew too tired to fight Pirates, and Mycroft managed to catch Sherlock, who was steadily floating to the ground, too tired to fly any more. He caught him easily, carrying him over to the lowest on a bunk bed. Benjamin was on the top, and helped Mycroft move the covers back. Sherlock was already nearly asleep, having trouble keeping his eyes open and clutching onto his bear tightly, burying his face into it.

'Goodnight, Sherlock.' Mycroft smiled, brushing a curl aside and crouching to kiss his forehead lightly.

'G'night, My.' Sherlock mumbled, slipping into sleep easily. Benjamin climbed into the top bed as Mycroft pulled the covers up over Sherlock, tucking him in.

The rest of the Lost Boys were quietly settling down, going quiet, and Mycroft picked his way carefully over the discarded hats, eye patches and other such accessories that added to their game, stepping into Greg's room silently, feeling his insides trembling with something akin to trepidation. Had Greg changed his mind? How were they supposed to sleep?

Greg was sat at his desk, turning over a pipe flute in his hands. Mycroft noticed the object immediately.

'Is that… Did that belong to Peter?' Mycroft asked quietly, feeling like he should be doing something special, now he was in the presence of one of Peter's most prized possessions. Like he should bow or something.

'It did. He made another of his own to take with him to the Darling's house, but gave this one to me.' Greg held it up, smiling slightly. 'He always played it.' Sighing, he put it down, turning to stand, pull off his shirt. 'But enough of that, it's time to sleep, I think.'

Mycroft nodded, unbuttoning his own shirt and trying not to stare. Greg was well muscled, but not too much. Nicely tanned, too.

Greg dressed down to his shorts, crawling under the covers quickly and sitting up, gesturing Myc do the same. Once they were both sat on the bed, Greg placed a gentle hand over the bandages again.

'Any change?' He asked. 'I could replace the bandage if you like.' Mycroft considered it, but only because the prospect of Greg wrapping his arms around him again was so pleasant.

'No, it's alright. I've only had them on for eight or so hours.' He shrugged. 'We can change them in the morning.'

'Good idea.' Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. 'We should probably get to sleep. There are, of course, no set times here, so we have no idea when everybody is getting up.' He grinned cheekily. 'Time doesn't matter in Neverland, since we have an unlimited amount of it with which to do whatever we please.'

Mycroft smiled, and slipped to be laying down underneath the covers, waiting for Greg to come back after blowing out all the candles. They were below ground, to stay out of Captain Moriarty's range, so of course windows weren't available. As the last candle was extinguished the room was thrown into heavy darkness. The only light was a single candle in the other room, but that wasn't enough to allow Mycroft to see his hand, only millimetres from his face. 'Why does it have to be so dark?'

'Imagination works wonders in darkness.' Greg replied, voice dangerously close to Mycroft's ear. He jumped, and heard Greg laugh softly, getting under the covers and shifting close, so that their sides were completely touching and they could be sure where the other was. 'You sight is completely gone, so all that's left it touch, taste, smell, hearing and imagination.'

'Imagination isn't a sense.' Mycroft corrected him.

'It is too! It plays just as big a part of understanding and interacting with everything around us, and it works as a sense of it's own.' Greg paused. 'For instance, I have no sight, sound, smell or touch to prove that you're smiling right now, but I can imagine you are, and I bet I'm right.' Mycroft laughed, knowing that he had been smiling, since Greg had insisted that imagination counted as a sixth sense.

'And I can imagine clearly that you're grinning.' He countered. 'So yes, I suppose it does count.' Maybe not back home, but definitely in Neverland. Imagination was key to this place. Which was why he supposed he was having trouble feeling truly at home.

'Well, now we've cleared that up, we should sleep.' Greg shifted, and the soft breath ghosting over him told him he was facing Mycroft. Now he had a choice. He could either turn in the same direction, and have Greg warm against his back, or meet him halfway and lay chest to chest. That was assuming Greg would want to keep the contact like that, though. His body seemed to want to turn _towards_ Greg, rather than away from him, and he knew that if he wasn't comfortable he wasn't going to sleep, so he followed instinct and turned. He waited for Greg to make whatever move he was going to, if any, and wasn't surprised to feel an arm wrap around his waist and tug him closer. One leg intertwined with his and Greg's other arm slipped under his neck to rest on the pillows. Mycroft followed his example, unsure quite how, wondering if Greg knew either, and looped one arm over the boys' waist, the other tucking under the pillow to allow them to be as close as possible.

There was something intimate about this, something /adult/, but it also felt entirely natural, and Mycroft found he couldn't think of any other way that this could have panned out. Of course they'd sleep like this, how else?

'Goodnight, Mycroft.' Greg whispered.

'Goodnight.' He replied quietly, exhaustion taking over. He'd not run around that much for a very long time. Just as he fell asleep, he felt Greg's lips against his forehead, not a simple kiss, more resting there, unmoving, a constant comfort as he let the silence that had been pressing in around him finally take over, let it fill his mind and his body until he wasn't there any more, just asleep, with Greg's body pressed warm and reassuring against his own.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft watched as Sherlock laid down on the expanse of grass, tucking John under one arm and staring up at the sky.

Cloud busting, as it was known to them, was one of Sherlock's favourite pastimes back home. He loved staring up at the sky, at the clouds, trying to make shapes out of them when he didn't have anything else to do, but wanted to be a little creative in some way. His favourite thing was to try to find Neverland, since it was in the sky anyway. How ironic, Mycroft thought. He'd found it, and now he was cloud busting again.

'Mind if I join you?' He asked, walking over and laying beside Sherlock when all he got was an absent hand being raised. He knew not to really interrupt Sherlock when he was doing this, because if he looked away, concentration would be broken.

The aim of this task, as well as finding the clouds that resembled other things, was to choose one cloud in particular and concentrate on it, imagine it being pulled apart, busting it. It seemed in Neverland, just like everything else, this was more fun than it used to be. Sherlock had perfected the skill of busting the cloud rather literally. He could stare at a cloud and make it break into many little pieces, or only in two, depending on how much he was trying. Sometimes he made sound effects, little 'boom' noises like an explosion. Other times, to accompany it, he would point at the cloud just before it busted, and then add the sound effect, like he could break them by simply pointing up at them.

As Mycroft settled, Sherlock did just that, pointing at a particularly big cloud and making the sound just as it split into four. Then he set to work on one of the pieces. It was a game that never ended, but could only be played when the skies weren't the wonderful pure blue that they naturally were.

'I'm glad we came here.' Sherlock murmured once he'd destroyed the cloud he'd focused on. 'I'm so glad Greg found us and we get to live here.'

Mycroft frowned. 'Sherlock… Are you truly happy here?' He asked. It was sort of what he'd intended to ask anyway, and now seemed a good moment, when nobody was around. 'Don't you want to go home?'

'Home?' Sherlock turned on his side, holding John to his chest and frowning. 'But we are home, Myc.' He reached out, pressing the palm of his hand to Mycroft's forehead. 'Are you feeling okay?'

'Yes, I'm feeling fine.' Mycroft smiled at his concern, but it turned to a frown of his own as he thought over those words. 'And no, Sherlock, this isn't really our home. Don't you remember London?'

'Well of course I remember London.' Sherlock looked a bit disgusted that Mycroft had assumed he didn't. 'But that wasn't home. This is. London's just somewhere to visit.' He shrugged, deeming the conversation over, and retracted his hand, turning to look at up the sky again. Mycroft sighed. He had no idea himself how long they'd been in Neverland, but it felt like they really did live there, so he couldn't imagine how Sherlock must feel, being younger. Maybe he didn't even remember mother and father? Mycroft had to admit he had almost forgotten their faces, but sometimes, just before he fell asleep in Greg's arms, he'd remembered them. Nothing completely real, more like a dream he'd had a long forgotten dreamt hat he could barely remember no matter how much he tried. Lately it was only feelings, a slight sense of disgruntled thoughts when he thought of his father, an affectionate feeling for his mother. Were there others? He couldn't remember if he had a brother, couldn't remember if he had other friends.

If it was difficult for him, on the cusp of adulthood, to remember what life had been like before Neverland, surely Sherlock was having even more trouble than him? Maybe Sherlock didn't want to remember, because here he had all the things he could ever need. He had Mycroft, John, his friends, he was a Lost Boy. He played Pirates in the evening, he could fly, this was everything he wanted. This was everything Mycroft had wanted once upon a time, everything he was desperately trying to remember wanting. You only got once chance to be in Neverland, what if he grew up despite Neverland's wishes? Would he be thrown back to London, would Jim claim him as his own?

'So… You want to stay here, for ever?' He asked carefully. 'You never want to leave?' Sherlock looked at him again, frowning, spreading his arm that wasn't holding John out to show Neverland below them, with the Indian's settlement above him further up the mountain that was more like a hill. You could see everything from here, the Mermaids Lagoon, the cave they'd found treasure in a few days ago, the skull cave that Tiger Lilly had been trapped in all those years ago. Mycroft wondered if Tiger Lilly was still with the Indians, if Indians aged like Lost Boys. Did the chief begin life fully grown as the Chief? Would Tiger Lilly still be young, would she remember Peter, like Greg? He wasn't sure so many questions were supposed to be asked in Neverland. Questions suggested a desire to learn, and no Lost Boy cared for schooling.

'Why would I want to leave?' Sherlock asked. 'It's boring back in London, and so _old_. I don't want to grow up like that, I don't want to be forced into society like that. No, I'm happy here, with the Lost Boys. They don't laugh at me or try to take John away from me.'

That was a rather good point. Back home, their mother had been trying to take John, saying Sherlock needed to be able to make friends on his own, he needed to maybe get some real friends. Sherlock had always insisted that he didn't need new friends, because John was enough for him, John listened to him and didn't tell him off, he didn't tell him he was being silly, he played with him and never stopped him, always backed up his actions. Why would he need anyone else? They'd overheard their mother talking about therapy, about getting him 'medical help', just because of John. But John had been quiet, calm as always, comforting. John was everything Sherlock would need when Mycroft wasn't there, and even when he was. But he'd never been an idiot, he knew John was an inanimate object, but that didn't matter, because Sherlock wasn't exactly normal either.

'But you must want to, to see mother again, to see father and… well, just to go home? To your old things?' Mycroft pressed. Not every body stayed in Neverland. Even Peter had left, after he met Wendy, John and Michael. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to go home. He didn't right now, by now means. He was only just getting to grips with being a Lost Boy, with being a child again, not having to grow up, but he imagined that eventually he would. Maybe Greg would come with him, if he wanted to give up the position of being the leader, if he thought somebody else would be able to take his place. But how would he explain to his parents that he'd taken fondly to a punk boy with shock grey hair and a different way of thinking to him, to the Holmes family collective, entirely? Maybe that would be worse than if they never went home. Besides, how much time would have passed by the time they returned? Maybe their parents would have moved house, because they memories of having their sons vanish was too much. Perhaps their father would just be disappointed, and nobody would believe the stories they had to tell.

'Oh, no. Not at all.' Sherlock grinned, hugging John to his chest. 'I never want to leave Neverland. I mean, I only just discovered cloud busting is actually possible here, there's so much to learn, so much even Peter never found!' His eyes were shining now with the possibilities of it all. 'If I went home, they might never be found, and that would be so sad.' He shrugged some. 'So I'm going to stay here, I think.'

Mycroft nodded, sighing. He knew there was no reasoning with Sherlock, mostly because he didn't even believe his own side of the argument. If he were Sherlock, he'd never want to leave either, and even as himself he wasn't sure why he was thinking about it. Neverland was quite literally his dream, there was nothing he wanted more than this. He didn't actually want to go home, but he wasn't settled here yet, still wasn't sure of himself in this middle world between adult and child.

'What about you?' Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes widening. 'You're not thinking of leaving, are you? I don't want you to grow up.'

'I don't want to either, Sherlock, honestly.' It was the first time he'd openly admitted this, and he noted the relief in Sherlock's face. 'I really don't. I don't want to leave but I'm not sure what I'm really trying to achieve by being here any more.'

'Well you just need to rediscover your childhood!' Sherlock stated, as if was just as easy as finding that second shoe that you know is somewhere nearby. 'Here, come on, we'll try cloud busting, that should keep your imagination going, right?' He pulled Mycroft to stare up at the sky, resting their heads close together to focus properly on the same clouds, and pointed directly upwards. 'That one, the one shaped like a steam train, try to bust it!'

Mycroft nodded, staring determinedly up at the sky, trying to imagine the cloud bursting apart, disintegrating and disappearing. And… It worked. He laughed as the cloud split into smaller pieces, drifting apart. Sherlock grinned, cuddled up closer to him. 'Perfect, My!' He declared. 'Now, you have to point at it, make the sounds. Otherwise you're not doing it right.' He spoke as if it were the complete truth, no negotiating, and he supposed they were. Sherlock had discovered this game here, so they were his own rules.

'But I'll feel silly.' Mycroft argued weakly. 'I don't know if I can.'

'Of course you can, and being silly is part of being a Lost Boy!' Sherlock told him confidently. 'It's only me here, Myc, I'm sure you can do it.'

Laughing slightly, Mycroft did as Sherlock told him, picking a section of cloud and focusing on it, imagining it exploding and busting apart. Just as it did, he got a sort of feeling, he couldn't really identify it, but it was clearly telling him that it was going to break, and he pointed up at the sky. It was tempting not to make any sound, but Sherlock was trying to help him, and he was so very grateful for it.

So he did it, he make a sound like you would when imitating something exploding, and the result was fantastic. It felt like he'd been entirely responsible for it, more than before, and he felt laughter bubbling up. Sherlock laughed too, next to him, overjoyed that Mycroft had let himself go, that he'd relaxed and given in to childish impulses, because that's what Neverland was for.

Mycroft realised he might be Neverland's toughest opponent, it was going to have to try to keep him happy, keep him as a child despite his own barriers.

'Welcome to Neverland, Myc.' Sherlock grinned. 'Welcome to being a Lost Boy proper!' Mycroft grinned back. Yes, he thought perhaps, if he was lucky, he could do this. He could be a Lost Boy like he'd always dreamed, and he could be truly happy here.


	7. Chapter 7

The next few days passed in a blur. Greg and Mycroft continued to share a bed, and together in the morning they would bandage him up again. Or rather Greg would, because Mycroft really couldn't, lacking the ability entirely. And besides, Greg wouldn't let him do it on his own, saying it was the fault of his own team, he couldn't let Mycroft handle it on his own.

They played so many games Mycroft found they all melted together, but he joined in with them all, and at the end of the day they all sat around a long table somewhere in the forest. He'd been completely confused at first, and found the food was… Well it wasn't there.

'There's nothing on these plates.' He told Greg, who was trying to settle everybody and eat like respectable gentlemen. It was a common game of theirs, pretending to be grown up. But it was just like a kid trying, doing what they imagined boring adults were like. Walking around making up long words, staring down their noses at each other. Mycroft was quite sure the twins were imitating _him_, but didn't mention it. Benjamin asked to borrow his blazer so he could be the most grown up.

'Of course there is, you're just not trying enough.' Adric told him from a few seats down. 'You need to imagine it.' He said this as if it was obvious, as if everybody always imagined the food they wanted. 'That way you get exactly what you want. If we all ate the same thing, there'd be somebody who didn't like it. But if we do this, you choose, and you don't have to have proper food. You could have ice cream for dinner!' The twins cheered.

'Or pizza!' Benjamin joined it.

'Cake!' Greg grinned, knowing Mycroft was fond of the food. Mycroft scowled at Sherlock, knowing he would have told Greg, and got only a mischievous grin in return.

'So what do I have to do?' Mycroft asked carefully. 'How do I get to the food?'

'Well you think of what you'd like to be eating, you really imagine it, and it's just there.' Greg shrugged, drinking what appeared to be an empty glass. Mycroft nodded, took a deep breath, and looked down at his plate. He closed his eyes, tried with everything he had to imagine a perfect Victoria sponge cake, coated in cream of just the right consistency. It wouldn't be too dry, but it wouldn't be damp, it would be perfect. The starch risen perfectly, the correct combination of cream and jam inside, just enough to compliment the base.

When he opened his eyes, he couldn't believe his eyes. The table was covered in a wide variety of pretty much everything. It looked like Zak and Alex were eating take out, Sherlock was devouring scones by the plenty, already lathered in cream and jam just the way he liked them to be as he laughed with Benjamin, who'd chosen sausages and mash. Adric had a bowl of cheese and broccoli, talking to Jake, who was trying to pay attention around his leek and potato soup and probably warm loaf of bread. Greg had coffee in his glass, and Italian food of some type, Mycroft couldn't be sure. There were bottles of ginger beer, lemonade, pots of tea, everything that could be there and even things that really shouldn't, that didn't match any of the food on the table, and it was fantastic.

'Can you see it all yet?' Greg asked, laughing when Mycroft dragged his eyes up to him, looking completely awed. 'You see, without imagination, there's really nothing much to do in Neverland. It's difficult to come by this variety of stuff on your own. So Peter decided we could decide for ourselves. That way everybody is happy and we never run out of food as long as we can still imagine. Before long you won't even need to concentrate on it, you'll just picture the food and it will be perfect. No more disappointing meals, no more being told what to eat. If we want to eat ice cream for breakfast, we can. And every day for the rest of our time here. People in Neverland don't really get ill, so we don't even need fruits and vegetables!'

'Five a day is for grown ups.' Benjamin chimed in, grinning. 'We'll have none of that here.'

Mycroft laughed, taking a bit of the Victoria Sponge. It was exactly as he'd imagined it would be, of course. He wondered if it was possible to imagine a bad meal, but set that thought aside. He could eat this forever, and maybe he could. Nobody would stop him, would they?

Dinner was always fantastic, a chance for each Lost Boy to talk about what had happened that day. Sometimes they all split up, doing what they wanted with their day before coming home. Dinner was the only part of the day that was firmly regulated. There was no marker, but Mycroft found he, and the others, knew exactly what to stop what they were doing, like an internal alarm clock that warned him, and go to dinner. He got the seat beside Greg, so they could talk.

They talked about everything and anything. Music, books Greg dimly remembered. Greg was better at tales about Neverland, but he was also rather well knowing of fairytales, on account of Wendy telling them all a wide variety of stories.

In the evenings, after dinner, if everybody was too tired to play or couldn't settle on what exactly to do, Greg would tell a story, usually about how brave Peter was, about his adventures here. Sherlock often requested the pirate stories, the one where Peter cut off Hook's hand and fed it to the crocodile. Now they were older, Greg could include more details. He revealed how it had actually been the scariest thing he'd seen, and given them all nightmares for a little while. Peter only threw it to the crocodile because he didn't want to have to look after it, in case Hook could know where it was, because it was a part of him, and thus find their hideout. Mycroft could tell, when Greg told it, he was being Peter. Replacing 'I' with 'he' but using the same actions, like he'd seen them a thousand times. There was a sense of nostalgia about his movement, about the way he said it. His speech patterns changed slightly, probably to reflect Peter's.

The Twins would ask for stories about the Indians, but Zak occasionally asked for Hook.

Each night, after the stories or the games, once everybody had admitted once more that they actually needed to sleep in order to have fun the next day and not be too tired, Mycroft would tuck Sherlock in, kiss his forehead, and head back to Greg's room. Only now he was greeted with whispers of goodnight from the Lost Boys. It seemed like they were starting to accept him, and he was starting to accept himself.

Greg was always in his room by then, having left the others to get themselves ready for bed. What he was doing when Mycroft arrived was always different. Staring at Peter's old pipe, pouring over a map, thinking about the next day's plans, where they should explore next, or just staring absently at the wall opposite the bed, waiting for Mycroft already.

On the nights Greg was already waiting, Mycroft quickly undressed, climbed under the covers and waited calmly for Greg to return from blowing out the candles, and holding him closer as soon as Greg was close enough.

That, as well as dinner, was the one true unwavering constant in Neverland. It varied, slightly, from time to time. They didn't always sleep face to face. It depended on which way their bodies would prefer. Mycroft liked the nights when Greg slept pressed up against his back, an arm wrapped protectively over his chest, moulded against him as if they were always supposed to lay like this, as if it had been planned and there was no other way of putting it.

Mycroft found the darkness not so much stifling any more, like it was pressing it on him, more like a soft cover, draping over them both and staying with them until such time as they no longer needed it, when the nightmares had gone and it was time to be awake, to be playing again. He greeted it each night like an old friend, welcoming when Greg blew out the last candle. In fact, in Neverland, he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that was the case. That the darkness really was a being, and it was there for them, always, just waiting. Mycroft wasn't liked at first, because he was an interruption, but now he was a firm friend.


	8. Chapter 8

'Okay everyone!' Greg called the Lost Boys over, suspended in the air over them. 'You're going to go on a treasure hunt again today!' The boys cheered enthusiastically. 'Teams again, I trust I don't need to call you all out.'

Adric stepped closer to Jake, the Twins put a hand on each other's shoulders, Benjamin beckoned Sherlock over, and Mycroft looked up at Greg, knowing they'd be searching together. Or rather Mycroft would be searching and Greg wouldn't help him at all.

'I've hid it in a really good place this time! Remember, once you find it, argue over who gets the crown and call for us! I know where it is so I'll signal you all to come over if you get lost.' Greg smiled, and made a fond shooing motion. 'Go on, then! Get going!'

The boys scattered in their pairs, each choosing a different direction, already talking to each other about where to look first. Greg turned to Mycroft, raising his eyebrows. 'Well, you gonna start looking?'

'Aren't you going to help me at all, Greg? It's not that fair, since everybody else has pairs.' He knew it was a rough chance, knew Greg wouldn't buy the bait, but he felt he had to try. Everybody else always got the prize before him, and he should be the one with the advantage, damnit!

'You know that never words, Myc.' Greg laughed. 'Pick a direction!' He grabbed hold of Mycroft's arms and pulled him into the air, letting go only when he was sure Mycroft was flying on his own. Mycroft sighed, turning this way and that, in the end closing his eyes. He kept spinning, extending his arm, and heard Greg laugh, probably moving out of the way. He stopped when the wind was moving through his hair, and noticed he was pointed towards Skull Rock before dizziness took over and he blinked a few times, losing his balance.

Greg was instantly behind him, bundling him into his arms, holding him class. Mycroft knew he must have looked like an idiot, being held like this by Greg above the ground. But he had to admit how warm he was, like he'd noticed when they fell asleep at night. Greg was a comfortingly solid presence, holding him safely and not letting him slip at all. For a few brief seconds that felt like a lifetime, he pressed closer, holding onto Greg and breathing him in. Just evenings wasn't enough any more. He wanted to be this close to Greg all the time.

No, wait. That was an incredibly adult mindset, wasn't it? He didn't know any more, the lines were finally starting to blur, so he just allowed it to happen. Maybe it was just adoration, since Peter wasn't here any more.

'You alright?' Greg asked carefully, releasing his tight grip slowly. Mycroft wanted to say no, he wasn't could Greg hold onto him a little longer, but nodded, knowing there would be time for that tonight. Greg let him go, and they both set off to the cave, staying close in case Mycroft fell again, in case his mind became too grown up and his childhood slipped a little.

'So where are we going?' Adric asked Jake, frowning a little as the other boy swatted leaves aside. 'I mean, we can't just search randomly, we might cover ground twice.'

'I've already thought of that, Ad.' Jake smiled. 'I don't know, I was thinking Mermaid Lagoon?' He reasoned that the mermaids would somehow help them. Either by completely denying treasure in such a strong way that it was obvious, or by being confused, thus telling them it wasn't even near there. Mermaids weren't the most intelligent creatures, probably from being half fish. They had more beauty than minds, as far as he was concerned.

'Good idea! Why don't we fly there, to save running through all this and getting ourselves cut… And leaves in our hair.' Adric whined slightly, pulling a thorn from his hair in distaste and flicking his head to resettle it.

'Because if we do, the others might see or hear us, and then they might follow us, and then, of course, they may find the treasure first. So no, no flying. Besides, that has to be cheating.'

'Greg and Mycroft fly.' Adric pointed out, pouting.

'Yes, but Mycroft isn't fully a kid again yet, is he? Flying will help him remember where he is, that he doesn't need to think about all those boring adult things any more.' Jake paused, thinking about getting to Mermaid Lagoon and following his internal compass, lead by Neverland. 'Besides, we know Neverland better than he does for now, so a treasure hunt is mean if he's on the same rules as us. Greg won't help him as it is. He's effectively on his own.'

Eventually they cleared the trees, having tossed aside quite a few fairies and pixies, and came across the Lagoon. It was just as it had always been; Jim had no quarrels with the Mermaids, they never bothered him and he never wanted to bother them. Besides, they were such vicious creatures he was probably fond of them.

A few of the Mermaids came up to the edge when Jake and Adric approached, calling their names cheerily. It was easy to believe they were harmless, but you can't reason with a Mermaid.

'Hello, ladies.' Adric crouched by the edge, out of reach of their sharp claws, and smiled charmingly. 'Don't suppose Greg dropped a box of treasure nearby?'

'No, Adric, we haven't.' The Mermaid, Angela, he remembered ironically, answered. Her voice was dripping with something sweet but deadly, and she curled one white strand of her long soft hair around one finger. He was always amazed by how their hair remained having that strange underwater look, even when they were not themselves immersed. 'But you're welcome to come in here and have a proper look.'

'I'm alright, cheers.' Adric stood, stepped back, turned to Jack. 'She didn't even look like she was lying. So, does that mean she really isn't?'

'I think it might. They might actually not know anything. Well, one location down, right?' Jake smiled, turning back to the forest.

'Come back soon!' Angela called, waving her hand at Adric and smiling innocently. But the innocence was an open shroud to the rows of sharp teeth behind her lips.

'I think we should go to Crocodile Creek!' Sherlock stated as they headed in the general direction they thought would be best.

'Is that just because from there you can see the ship?' Benjamin asked, frowning. 'Because you know that place isn't safe, don't you?'

'I know.' Sherlock answered, sighing a little. 'I just wish that weren't the case. I want to be able to go to the ship, Benjamin. I want to climb the rigging, sit in the Crow's nest and stare up at the stars, to wonder if they're just like Neverland, to think about how they're closer than they used to be because we're in a star right now, really. I want to stand at the helm, to walk about on deck.' His eyes took on a wistful look, sighing slightly with longing.

'I know, Sherlock.' Benjamin nodded carefully. 'But since Jim took over you'd be killed long before you got even near to him. He's worse than Hook.'

'Hook?' The younger boy laughed, grinning. 'Hook was just a codfish.' Benjamin laughed too, but tried to forget the moment when they found the Crocodile, laid across the creek as if to make a funny joke, with his slight split and innards spilling out. Including a silver hood, now stained and weaved into entrails.

It had been one of the most disgusting things he'd ever seen, still was the very top of the list by far. Although, there were worse things, now he thought about it. Not days later. Benjamin shuddered, pushing the thoughts from his mind. No need to terrify the poor boy with him.

'Well codfish or not, he was also not nearly so dangerous as Jim. And Smee was an idiot compared to Moran.' Benjamin warned as they got to the creek, remarkably close to the camp really.

They looked everywhere, under bridges, inside bracken though they knew that wouldn't really work, up to the edge of the creek, where it opened to the sea and the previously named Jolly Roger was anchored.

It looked just like it always did, from this distance. But there were newer, more accurate and stronger canons, an entirely new – and occasionally dwindling – crew, a new Captain, flag and complete running of things. Not to mention the name, now written in strong, cold silver lettering_. __**The Reichenbach**_.

Something in Sherlock felt chilled by the name, somehow finding it intimidating. It wasn't as… happy, as the Jolly Roger, which had been in golden script curling letters, almost inviting you into the trap it had waiting for you on board. This was harsh, all sharp corners and no room for negotiation.

'Look, let's get out of here, before we're noticed.' Jake pulled Sherlock's sleeve, tugging him back to the cover of trees, wary that Jim could be scouring the landscape for any sing of a Lost Boy. 'We can try somewhere else.'

'I think we should go to the Misty Mountains.'

'Well that's stupid. We'll be there for hours. That's a wide range, you know. They're called Mountains for a reason, and there is more than one.'

'I know, but nobody else is going to look there, are they?'

'No, because that's a ridiculous place to hide treasure.'

'Alright, fine, boy genius who knows all, where should we search?' Alex sighed, stopping to look at him.

'I think we should go to Hangman's tree.' Zak admitted. 'I have a feeling he might have put the treasure in there.'

'You honestly want to go to where Peter used to live?'

'Yes. I think it might be worth a shot!' Zak replied. 'Quicker to search, too. And warmer. And the fact that Peter was there all the time.'

'You're still obsessed with him.' Alex smiled. 'That's very cute of you'

'I'm not cute.' Zak scowled, yawning and rubbing his face. 'And yeah, fine I still like Peter. I'm in Neverland! Of course I do! I adore Greg. Oh god, I really do, but he's not Peter.'

'I know he isn't, but you just have to handle it, don't you?' Alex shrugged. 'At least Greg still knows the stories about Peter, and can tell us about them, right?' He paused, getting his bearings. 'So we're going to Hangman's Tree?'

'Yes, I guess we are. Why did Peter have to leave? Why did he want to be an adult? It must be so boring, all those bills, all that work, you can't have any fun or do anything you want.'

'I don't know. I guess it was Wendy, she must have convinced him to leave and stay with her. Or her family were so nice he didn't want to leave them.'

'Wouldn't he miss Neverland?'

'Probably. Don't worry, Zak. He is gone, but we're still here, able to carry on his legacy.'

'Yeah, and entirely new group of us. Not even Tootles, Curly, Slightly or the old twins stayed here. Didn't Slightly become a lawyer or something? The most boring of adult jobs. And we don't have Hook any more. What happened to him?'

'I'm not sure.' Alex kept his eyes forward. He'd asked Greg, a few times, but he wasn't willing to talk about it, said it wasn't something that usually happens in Neverland and he didn't want them knowing about it, didn't want them thinking about that sort of thing if they could help it.

The Hangman's Tree was tall, and possibly one of the oldest things in Neverland. Zak came here sometimes when he wanted to think about Peter, think about what he must have been like, that this was where he'd danced, pouted, sang, played all the game he and the Lost Boys used to play, where Wendy told her stories. Peter's old throne was a wreck, with a large hole in the wood blasted out beside it from where the parcel had been placed as a trap from Hook.

The treasure wasn't there, but it was nice to walk around, voices hushed as if they were in a religious building. Zak supposed they were, really. They were where Peter, the first Lost Boy, had grown up.

'Why don't we go to the Misty Mountains?'

'Because it's a stupid idea, Anderson.' Sally replied easily. She didn't hate him that much, not really. He was just a little annoying sometimes, a lot of the time. His ideas were always a little ridiculous.

'But I bet nobody else checks there.' The boy persisted.

'Alright. Fine. You're not going to let up, are you?' Sally asked him, pausing and changing direction. The Indians wouldn't have it anyway, surely.

'No, I'm not. I really think we might win it this time, Sally!' His childish joy was infectious, and Sally found herself smiling as she let him lead the way, both following their initiative.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft touched down on the mouth of the cave, and the skull, with a smile on his face. He hadn't fallen once all the way over here, too excited by the prospect of getting to discover the cave, to see where Peter had taken Wendy. Where Tiger Lilly had been taken by Hook that lead to a party gathering up with the Indians. Greg laughed at his eagerness as he ran into the cave, and yelled triumphantly at the sight of the overflowing chest, a crown resting on top of the pile. Hook obviously wasn't able to claim it back, so it was perfectly acceptable for them to use it as part of their games now.

'How did you know?' Greg asked, appearing beside him, gently pressing a hand between his shoulder blades to push him forward towards the treasure.

'I just remembered Peter coming here.' Mycroft smiled, picking up the gold crown, smiling happily at his own reflection. He looked more like a Lost Boy, he noticed, when he was happy like this. Greg gently took the accessory from his hand and reached up, placing it at a jaunty angle on his head, grinning.

'All this time later, and he still has such a big influence over us.' Greg looked around, as if he'd see Peter peeking from behind a rock, or laughing in a corner, pretending to be Hook. 'Wait. What's that?' Without thinking about it, Greg became quieter, lifting off the ground slightly and drifting to the edge of the platform that he'd stashed the Treasure on. 'Is… That's Molly.' He breathed, dropping to the stone to look over, as he'd imagined Peter doing a long time ago.

Mycroft stepped up beside him, pressing himself against the floor and looking over. A young girl, a little younger than them, was almost fully immersed in water, having to look directly up in order to breathe. Her mouse brown hair was spread around her, and he couldn't see any signs of struggles, suggested ties were involved, as well as a blindfold.

'I'm going to save her.' Greg breathed. 'I can't let her drown, Mycroft.' He lifted himself slowly from the ground, but Mycroft put a hand on Greg's back, pushing him back down.

'You can't, you don't know if there's a trap or something.' He told him slowly. 'Jim might have done this on purpose, you at least need to look around first.'

'Alright, fine, I'm going to scope it out first, and you need to do the same, so we cover more ground.' Greg looked at him. 'You go that side, I'll go this side, and then we'll both go and get Molly, okay? Do you think you'll be able to do that without something happening or falling?'

'Of course I'm not going to fall.' Mycroft scowled. 'A girl's life is at stake, I'm not going to let that happen.'

'Good.' Greg smiled his thanks and snuck of around the right side of the cave, keeping one eye on Molly, the other eye out for anything that could be potentially dangerous. Mycroft did the same, looking over at Greg sometimes rather than spending more time checking on his own areas. But the pirates were gone. There weren't even any traps, as if Jim had just become bored and only did this for a spot of fun.

Greg flew down to the edge of the water while Mycroft hung back, and he reached in, pulling Molly out of the water. The girl flinched, going tense, but Greg quietly soothed her, told her she was safe, it was him, she'd be alright now. This seemed to calm her down as they both came over to the platform that Mycroft had made his way back to.

Greg reached around her to untie the blindfold, and Mycroft felt a small stab of something in his gut. It caused pause for a moment, unsure quite how to react to it. What did this even mean? It felt a little bit like jealousy, and Mycroft turned away, trying to bury it. Jealousy was such an ugly trait, only something adults felt, especially in this context. Why should he care if Greg was being so close to Molly? It wasn't like he had any right to, not like he was even having any sort of feelings like that.

'We need to take her back to the Indians.' Greg stated, using Peter's old dagger to break the bonds on her hands and feet, and scooping her up in his arms, exactly as he had not an hour before with Mycroft.

'You go ahead. I'm going back to camp.' Mycroft looked away again, blinking a few times. He couldn't bring himself to look at them, at how easily Molly fitted in Greg's arms, as if she belonged.

'Mycroft?' Greg frowned. 'Are you sure? You wanted to see the Indians, didn't you?'

'Not any more. Look, just get Molly home, I'll see you when you get back. I've got a headache.' He knew it was a terrible excuse, but it was at least partly true. 'I'm going to lay down.'

'Headache? Are you sure it isn't from when you fell?' Greg frowned worriedly, but Mycroft shrugged him off. 'No, nothing like that. I just need to be in the dark for a little while. Hurry up and take Molly home, before the Chief begins to worry.' Greg looked at him for another moment, trying to understand what had gone wrong, but Mycroft assumed he couldn't work it out, since he shook his head, promising to see him that night, and flying away from the cave, crowing as he did so so that the Lost Boys would hear him. As he did, Mycroft remembered the crown on his head, thought of all the boys that were going to flock here soon enough, and put it back down, flying up and around to hide in a crevice until all the Lost Boy's had been past.

He waited until they were playing with the treasure, wondering where he and Greg had vanished to, and flew off himself, staying relatively close to the sea to avoid detection and hide if needed from the Lost Boys, or in case he slipped again. It was difficult to tell quite why he was doing anything any more.

He made it back to the base without getting lost, which felt quite good. He was starting to know his way around Neverland, so surely he was beginning to be a kid again? Was that too much to hope? He walked through to Greg's room, the candles out since they weren't back there yet, and crawled under the covers, hiding his face as he tried to breathe calmly.

What was this, all these feelings? Surely he couldn't be jealous. He wasn't allowed to be jealous, it was far too grown up. But he did feel it, and he'd still managed to find his way home here. Was this his home, had Neverland accepted him as a Lost Boy at last?

He couldn't decide, couldn't work out why he seemed to be jealous of Greg with Molly. It wasn't like he had feelings for the boy, surely. He wasn't like that, Lost Boys weren't like that at all. This place was all about retaining your childhood innocence, and attraction was in no way innocent at all.

He threw his pillow at the opposite wall angrily, pull one of the remaining ones to his chest as he would Greg and buried his face into the material, the conflicting emotions and thoughts really making his headache more real and profound. He could feel it might turn into a migraine and willed himself to sleep it off, as he always did. Maybe he'd be able to think clearer after a nap for a few hours with the Lost Boys played with the treasure he'd found for once.

Without really meaning to, Mycroft fell asleep imagining Greg was beside him, imagining him apologising and kissing him softly by way of asking for forgiveness. Mycroft forgave him instantly.

Mycroft woke to Greg telling the Lost Boys how he'd rescued Molly, taken her back. Sherlock asked after Mycroft and he heard Greg explain that Mycroft wasn't feeling too well, but it had been him that found the treasure. Everybody cheered at that, saying they really must congratulate him when he woke up. Mycroft sighed, turning to bury his face into the pillow again and try to soothe his mind. The migraine was mostly gone, thank god, but he wasn't sure the jealousy was quite gone.

Greg started explaining how happy the Chief was that he'd rescued Molly, and the mere mention of her name had Mycroft's stomach churning a strong disliking rose in his chest.

He was 'woken' for dinner, or rather, woken by Greg bringing him a plate and a cup, saying he wasn't sure what Mycroft would want. Mycroft smiled his thanks, asking after the others. It seemed they'd all gone on to dinner, as every night, but Greg was more worried about Mycroft, if he was alright now, what earlier was all about.

'I just had a headache, I told you.' Mycroft insisted, starting to eat the ham, cucumber and radish sandwiches he'd imagined up, not quite hungry enough to eat proper dinner, not with his stomach being so irritated.

'That's not true, Myc.' Greg scowled, reaching forward and placing his index finger over the space between his eyebrows. 'You're frowning again, the really serious one that never leads to good things. What's wrong?' He settled close, sitting against the wall beside him and stealing a corner from one of the sandwiches, creating Earl Grey in the cup because he knew Mycroft favoured it so.

'It's nothing, I'm sure.' Mycroft sighed, finishing his mouthful sadly and trying to get his appetite back, now Greg was so close to him. Without Molly nearby, he was having trouble remembering quite why he felt like this again.

'Well if you tell me, I can help decide.' Greg suggested. Shrugging, Mycroft ate what he could and put the plate down on the desk beside the bed.

'I just didn't feel good, and I'd only be slowing you down, what with you carrying Molly and all.' He looked away, knowing he was behaving like a child but with contrasting thoughts it made everything somewhat difficult to make sense of.

'Molly… This started when I rescued her.' Greg frowned. 'Mycroft… Are you jealous?' There was no taunting in his voice, nothing mean, teasing or laughable. It was just genuine interest, a faint amount of confusion. Mycroft understood the confusion too well. Why shouldn't he be?

'No. I…' Mycroft sighed, looking at his feet instead of looking up at Greg. 'I'd rather not talk about it.'

'Alright.' Greg stood up, taking Mycroft's plate carefully but leaving the tea. 'But we're talking about this properly tonight, okay? I'm not letting you suffer whatever it is you're suffering without doing whatever I can to help you. You're just settling in here, letting yourself become a Lost Boy, I'm not losing you.'

Mycroft nodded, touched by how determined Greg was as well as a little alarmed. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to talk his way out of this, what he was going to even say.

The evening passed rather quickly, with Mycroft observing rather than joining in the games. When he first stepped into the room, everybody was asking if he was alright, if he felt any better, and congratulating him on finding the treasure first. It was heart warming, seeing how they'd accepted him into their group now.

Today, topically, was Indians. Greg was Chief, and Sally refused to be Molly on the basis that she was a girl. Mycroft noticed Greg didn't even glance at the twins as he tried to pick somebody to be a girl. It ended up being Adric, who turned out to be very good at being dramatic, doing an intentionally stereotypical impression of a girl much to Sally's distaste.

As with every game in the evening, the Lost Boys soon became exhausted, and parted ways to crawl into their beds. Mycroft once again put Sherlock to bed, tucking John into his arms and smiling before turning back to his and Greg's room. This wasn't going to be easy, and his stomach tightened worriedly as he stepped into the room, stripping down and crawling into bed habitually as Greg blew all the candles out.

'Okay, so.' Greg started as soon as they'd settled. 'What's all this about being jealous, Myc?' His voice was quietly calm and curious.

'I'm not entirely sure, as I said. I just didn't like it when you carried Molly. Look, I'm not sure this was such a good idea.' He shrugged himself free of Greg, finding he couldn't breathe knowing that Greg would know he liked him in a way more than friendship, like a grown up would like another grown up.

As he tried to sit up, Greg moved fast, grabbing onto him and rolling so Mycroft was on his back, unable to move. He tried anyway, not wanting to have to explain himself at all any more, but Greg sat over his waist. The only way he knew where Greg was in this light was the hands on his wrists, now either side of his face, and the pressure of his knees either side of his hips. A ghost of breath rested over his cheek as he looked left, then right, trying to understand how he got here, and what was even happening.

'You didn't like me being close to Molly?' Greg asked, his voice even lower than usual, and Mycroft had trouble focusing. He had no vision, so all his other senses were on read alert, it felt like electricity where Greg's hands were on his wrists, like small bursts of euphoria where his breath hit.

'No.' He couldn't lie, what was the point.

'Because you wanted it to be you? You wanted to be so close. After all, you are every night, so why not then, why her?' Mycroft nodded, only able to tell how close he was now by how concentrated the puffs of air were to his skin. His face couldn't be more than a foot away.

Greg didn't speak any more, didn't say anything, he just breathed. Mycroft closed his eyes, because trying to see something wasn't working for him at all, and suddenly the hands were tightening, pressure being placed onto them and Greg lowered himself to press his lips against Mycroft's.

It was only an innocent action, in itself. People kissed, that was fine, but Mycroft was quite sure Lost Boys didn't. And if they did, they most certainly didn't while under this circumstance. He tried not to think about that as he closed his fists, hesitantly pushing apart Greg's lips with his own, just a fraction. Just enough to allow them to breathe each other's carbon dioxide, to share a breath as they connected like this.

Greg's response was something akin to a sigh, a soft sound that, again, could be taken as innocent out of context but so clearly wasn't here. Mycroft lifted his head from the pillow to kiss Greg better, angling his head clumsily to try to slot their lips easier.

Greg did the same, and they found the angle without much fault. Mycroft tried to think about how bad an idea this was, how he really didn't think this was something they should be doing, but it was so distracting with Greg's tongue tentatively sweeping his bottom lip, as if testing the boundaries, finding out what worked. He decided he didn't care, relaxing into the bed beneath him.

The silence around them was heavy with anticipation, like it was so shocked and amazed by what was occurring in the room that it didn't dare move in case it interrupted the moment.

Trying his luck to see what worked here, Mycroft slowly raised on leg, bent at the knee, wondering what the effect would be, if Greg had the same tightness in his boxers as he did. The result was a shocked gasp, and Greg pulling away for a moment before kissing him against with more vigour than before.

Greg lowered himself down, until he was chest to chest with Mycroft, one hand releasing his wrist to card through his hair, messing it up with one swift stroke and repeating the action. His other hand remained tightly holding over Mycroft's wrist, not allowing that arm to move as the other reached around his waist, starting at the small of his back and moving up to mirror the action, brushing through the soft silver hair.

Mycroft felt a knee part his legs, brushing over the sizable bulge in his boxers, and found his reaction much like the one he'd just heard, a short gasp and renewed energy. It had felt like every cell in his body was sent into a frenzy, he was losing the ability to think clearly, only able to think of Greg, above him, the both of them falling apart at the seams and there was nothing they could do about it.

And then Greg's lips left his, worked messily down his throat, pulling a rough moan from Mycroft's lips. A hand reached to press over his mouth, and Greg's mouth was by his ear, breath sending shivers down to the start of his spine.

'We shouldn't… The Lost Boys.'

Of course, the Lost Boys were asleep in the nearby room, they wouldn't know how to react if they heard this, saw this. This incredibly adult way of doing things. Mycroft wasn't even sure how it had happened now, what he'd done to end up under Greg like this, both of them panting in the darkness as if their air supplies had been cut off.

Greg waited a few moments before removing his hand and kissing Mycroft again, softer this time as he reluctantly shifted back, away from Mycroft, only to pull him close and kiss his hair, messing it up a little more absently. Mycroft squashed down the disappointment eating away at him in place of the jealousy and settled for kissing Greg's neck, finding his pulse point and pressing his tongue against it between an open mouthed kiss, feeling Greg's heart rate slowly becoming normal again. It had been elevated because of him, because he had been the one kissing him, the one that Greg had chosen to kiss.

'I didn't stop because I wanted to.' Greg told him, and the darkness, quietly. 'If it were possible, we would have continued. I have no idea what just happened, but I'm glad it did. I'm glad that you're here, Mycroft.' Mycroft nodded, sensing there was more and staying quiet to allow him to speak. 'I know you're probably conflicted, since that wasn't exactly innocent.' He shifted, and their waists lined up again. Both boys groaned and closed their eyes until the moment passed. 'Not innocent at all, then. But Neverland didn't actually stop you, so I don't think it was so bad. We've got different rules now, we're not kids anymore in Neverland, not in the same sense. It's not accident that you're having trouble adjusting to being a Lost Boy, because you really were very close to growing up and if I hadn't got you when I did… It would have been too late. So I feel like we're expected of this sort of thing. Still, the other Lost Boys are still kids, really, they've been here longer. The closest to this is Alex, he's comfortable with being really close to people, laying over them or playing with their hair. It'll probably happen to you at some point.' He laughed slightly.

'So… You don't regret it at all?' Mycroft asked hesitantly.

'Regret it? No, god, of course not.' Greg lifted Mycroft's chin with his hand and kissed him softly again, letting it last a few moments before pulling away but keeping close. 'I don't regret it at all. I'm happy I did it, of course. We should try to get some sleep, talk it over tomorrow.'

Mycroft nodded, resting their foreheads together, lips pressing close every now and then as they both relaxed, trying to get into the mindset where they could both sleep easily.

Greg's arms moved around him again, pulling him close and intertwining their legs until it was difficult to tell which limb belonged to who.


	10. Chapter 10

'So did she get it?' Captain Moriarty asked excitedly, walking quickly over to First Mate Moran as soon as the man climbed over the edge of the ship. 'Did the girl drown?'

Sebastian shook his head, stepping carefully out of the Captain's reach hesitantly. When his Captain's games didn't quite work out, he was known to lash out at anybody nearby that made a wrong move. 'Not our fault, Boss. Those kids must have found her.'

Jim swore, turning away angrily and drawing his pistol at one of the crew that caught his eye. 'You look relieved. Are you glad she didn't die? Perhaps you'd like to go think that over down in the depths?' He asked. The man shook his head fearfully. 'What was that?'

'No.'

'No, _what_?'

The man paused. 'No, Captain?' Jim shook his head and shot the man, staring in distaste as he fell and a pool of blood slowly began to form on the deck.

'No, today was 'sir'.' He told the pirate's corpse. 'Moran, get somebody to clean that mess up. He'll leak through the ship.'

Moran nodded, taking a deep breath. How Jim liked to be addressed changed day to day, sometimes minute by minute. It was always a bit of guesswork for the crew, but Sebastian had long since learnt the little tells that instructed him towards which term he'd prefer. Sir, Jim, Captain, James. They were the ones he usually favoured. Sebastian thought sometimes he lied, even if the man got it right that time, and shot them anyway. It was down to how much the man annoyed him.

Sebastian had been with Jim the entire time he'd been a Captain, had been near him enough to know when he was about to have one of his mood, in which case he'd try to get Jim into his cabin, to spare the crew. It was still rather difficult to tell quite what he'd do at any one moment.

It was difficult to remember sometimes that he wasn't always insane, he hadn't always been this cracked, but being in Neverland, the place he'd wanted to be ever since he was a little boy, but not being a Lost Boy, unable to fly, it had destroyed him. It was no accident that they were here, he knew that.

All the Pirates had once wanted to be Lost Boys, but hadn't been good enough for Peter to come and get them. Like he was some warped version of Santa.

Mycroft was waken by soft hands once more in his hair, against his skin, coaxing him out of unconsciousness in a calm way, slowly. Yawning, Mycroft stretched out over Greg, sprawling over his chest and tucking his face into Greg's neck.

Greg laughed, his voice rough from sleep, and Mycroft remembered the night before, remembered what had happened and how intense it had seemed. It still seemed it, in fact. 'Morning, My.'

Mycroft mumbled a reply, thinking through what Greg had told him last night, how he didn't regret one second, they could have continued. He was blushing now, just thinking about it all.

'We should probably get up soon, if you want breakfast. You hardly had dinner.' Greg was frowning, Mycroft could hear it in his voice. Teasingly, he grazed his teeth over Greg's neck.

'I'll just see how your skin tastes, that'll be enough for me.' He murmured against his skin. Greg tensed, his arm around Mycroft tightening slightly as he held onto him. Mycroft paused, pulling away to look at Greg questioningly. 'Are you alright?' Greg nodded, eyes slowly opening again.

'Just fine.' He smiled slightly. 'Just… That felt quite nice.' A faint blush crept over Greg's nose and Mycroft smiled, repeating the action more hesitantly now he was fully aware of what he was doing, listening to Greg inhale sharper than usual. He lifted his head again, resting up on his elbows to kiss along Greg's jaw to his lips, claiming them easily, without even having to think about it any more.

Greg smiled against his lips, and they kept it somewhat more controlled than the night before, simply kissing because it got them closer, it connected them in ways that they were previous unaware of even being possible, let alone likely.

The sounds of the Lost Boys next door alerted them to the fact that they should probably stop cuddling and sharing soft kisses now. It sounded like Adric had pulled Jake's covers away to wake him up and it had somehow escalated to a pillow fight peppered with silly insults between blows.

Greg pushed himself up into the kiss, and Mycroft moved backwards to accommodate, as if they'd done this every day for a year, until he was sat up, up on his knees with Greg shadowing his movements, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist for a few moments.

'Okay, enough of this. We have to go.' Greg smiled fondly, kissing his forehead. 'Yesterday was good, Myc. You found the treasure, you flew all the way to Skull Rock without falling, you're frowning less. I think we can do this, you know. I think we can help you become a Lost Boy properly now.'

'But… That… Last night and this morning, that wasn't typical Lost Boy behaviour.' He frowned, but Greg kissed where the crease usually appeared before it could.

'I told you last night, it doesn't make you any less of a Lost Boy. I started it, remember? And do you regret it?'

'Not for a minute.'

'Then it's nothing to worry about. It's happened, we can move on now, and maybe do it again when there aren't the others around.' There was a glint in his eyes that Mycroft found incredibly appealing, and a smile on his faintly bruised lips that had his heart racing at the thought.

'I'd like that.' Mycroft smiled, laughing slightly.

'Good. Me too.' Greg linked the fingers of their left hands together for a moment before letting go to get dressed for their day.


	11. Chapter 11

It hit Jim hard sometimes, the knowledge that he could never be a Lost Boy. Sebastian was actually sure that was why he'd become like this. He always said it was a shame Peter's already upped and left, because Jim had a thing or two to say to him. Sebastian knew that it wasn't one or two, it was a lot, a paragraph of how cruel Peter had been, to ignore him. He could have been the best Lost Boy Peter had ever seen, but instead he'd been disregarded, while other boys were allowed to visit Neverland, even a _girl_. A girl was a better candidate for Neverland than he.

If he was going to be honest with himself, Sebastian was glad Peter had already left to go and live with Wendy, John and Michael. It was a blessing, if anything, because Peter wouldn't have survived the chat, which would have been so very tragic. Nobody died in Neverland, it just wasn't how it worked. Peter spoke about it, sure, about a fairy dying when a child claims to not believe in them, but he wondered if Peter ever actually understood what that meant. If he was aware the translation of that was that their hearts ceased to beat, they no longer lived, played, visited him. Perhaps a lot of fairies had died but there were so many Peter just assumed they'd gone somewhere else. Perhaps that's what he thought death was, just somewhere else to go beyond Neverland.

What was it he'd always said? To die would be an awfully grand adventure. It really did seem he just thought dying was a code word for the next adventure, the next round of fun.

That was why Jim had killed Hook, hung him at the Hangman's Tree, in a sickly humoured attempt to play along with the title, and left the crocodile in Crocodile Creek. Hook hadn't been angry enough at Peter to really try. He claimed to hate the boy, despised everything about him, and yet he let him live, never tried hard enough to kill him.

So Jim had set his sights on the Lost Boys left behind. Greg, the leader who'd once been one of Peter's oh, so loyal followers, was his main target. He'd do anything to hang Greg from the same place he'd hung Hook, to teach the Lost Boys about death. He'd say he was only trying to educate them.

'Can we talk about mothers tonight?' Sherlock asked.

They were all lounging around in the main room, trying to work out what to do. It wasn't quite dinnertime yet, but they were all too lazy to play games for now. 'Anything we can remember about them.'

Everybody was silent, trying to remember what they could about their own mothers. The twins scowled slightly, clearly not liking the thoughts the word had created, but Benjamin smiled faintly. They all looked up to Greg, to see what he'd think of the proposition.

'I think it's a wonderful idea.' Greg nodded encouragingly. Sherlock, Mycroft, you probably remember your mother best, why don't you start?' He settled in a hollow in the wall, leaning against Mycroft slightly. They both had their legs drawn up, like a barrier, hiding the fact that their hands were woven together. Greg smiled at the two of them.

'Well I only remember the stories she told me.' Sherlock stated. 'And how she tried to take John away from me' As if afraid of this as an immediate threat, Sherlock cuddled the bear closer to him, both arms wrapped around it protectively. 'Her and father tried to make me get new friends.'

'Well you've got both now, right?' Benjamin nudged him, grinning. 'New friends, and you still have John.' Sherlock nodded, smiling shyly in thanks.

'She was very kind.' Mycroft picked up. 'Never mean to us directly, or on purpose. Each night she would take Sherlock to bed, tuck him in, and tidy up around him until he fell asleep. I think she planned to be a safe presence, to scare away any nightmares you might have had.' By now he was talking to Sherlock directly, and his little brother was staring back, blue eyes wide with wonderment. 'Her face was soft, never blemished. She has the same eyes as you, and a nice voice, one that you instantly associate with mothers; authoritative but trustworthy. She was a wonderful mother.'

'So why did you leave?' Anderson asked, looking over at Mycroft through his hair. 'If you had such a wonderful mother, why did you come to Neverland?'

'Because we did not have a wonderful father.' Mycroft told him. 'I still don't quite know what encourage mother to marry him. He constantly tried to make us grow up long before we were supposed to. Sent us away to go to school. I'd think he didn't love us except I suspect mother forced him to.' He bit his lip. 'I look more like him that Sherlock does. Each day he'd push a little more, made me wear suits so often I felt uncomfortable in anything else. He tried to live the life he wanted to have through me. I was just a younger version of him, a clean slate. He wanted me to become a politician, to start early. I was due to have an apprenticeship, within a few years I'd be within the Government, and I'm smart enough to work behind them, pulling the strings and making sure Britain doesn't fall. While it sounds like a nice idea, it's just so much responsibility.' He looked at the floor, smiling ever so slightly when Greg squeezed his hand in comfort. 'But not any more. Greg found us in time, and now I don't have to grow up any more.' The Lost Boys cheered at that, and Mycroft could tell they'd all been a little uneasy at all those adult thoughts he was giving them. 'What about you, Benjamin?'

'Oh, I don't remember too much. We had this big country house, I think. I was allowed to go and play out in the fields until dinner. Mother was busy a lot, from what I can tell. Always doing something, always rushing about.'

'My parents worked as lawyers.' Adric piped up, as if he only just remembered. 'Mother was nice enough, but always busy too.' He frowned. 'I can't even remember what a lawyer is.'

Everybody threw in things they remembered about their mother, thoughts sparked by what other people said, remembering more and more things as the conversation progressed. Mycroft noticed that throughout, the Twins remained silent, and leant his head closer to Greg, asking if he knew why.

'When I found them, they'd already run away from home, only had each other. They were hiding in Kensington Gardens, I think they wanted Peter to drop by and find them. From what I gather, their mother's strongly disapproved of them, their lifestyle, their names-'

'Names?' Mycroft frowned. 'Surely they are the names they were born with?'

'Not quite.' Greg looked over at them. 'Don't you think their features are a bit soft, their voices a little higher than boys our age?'

Mycroft stared at them for a few moments, trying to understand what Greg was clearly implying but unwilling to outwardly state. Then he noticed it. 'No. Surely not.' He paused for a few moments. 'I mean, I'd never even thought of them like that.'

'And why should you?' Greg smiled sadly. 'They're Lost Boys, in so many senses. Neverland is where they can be who they truly are inside, without any of us judging them or trying to make them be somebody they're not.'

'So that's why they don't talk about their lives before Neverland.' Mycroft nodded to himself, starting to understand it all now. 'Do you know their original names?'

'Nope. Never thought to ask, seems a bit unfair, really. I imagine they want to forget them as much as they want to forget the life forced on them by society. If they want to be Lost Boys Zak and Alex, I've got no problems. Zak's wonderful, though. Always so helpful if I need a hand. Alex said he adores me.' He blushed faintly at the idea of it, and Mycroft found he didn't actually feel too jealous, when he looked over at Zak. He clearly wasn't interested in Greg that same way Mycroft was. He decided it was probably just hero worship.

'Hey, I've got an idea.' Greg let go of Mycroft's hand and stood up, pulling him to his feet. 'We'll be back in a moment, everyone.' He told them all, pushing Mycroft gently towards their room.

'What idea would this be?' Mycroft smiled as the curtain closed, the only light now coming from a few candles in the room.

'Well, there's a few, actually, now we're here.' Greg smiled, closing in on Mycroft, wasting no time in kissing him with enough force to drive him back against the wall. Mycroft wove his hands around Greg's waist quickly, smiling against his lips. If this is what Greg had in mind, he was entirely up for it.

Greg's hand landed on Mycroft's stomach, rising up over the shirt until he reached the top, and he started unbuttoning the shirt clumsily. Mycroft paused, wondering where on earth this was supposed to lead. But he didn't feel nervous, since they slept in the same bed anyway, so what was a removed shirt to him?

Once he'd finished, he pulled away from the kiss to press his lips along Mycroft's shirt. 'We're going to swap clothes.' He stated, running his hands over Mycroft's skin in a way that was not innocent in the slightest. 'Get you out of your suit.'

'Why?' It wasn't a refusal. Mycroft didn't think he was capable of refusing Greg of anything right now.

'Because you feel uncomfortable in normal clothes and it makes you look grown up.' Greg told him quietly, voice now a near whisper in his ear.


	12. Chapter 12

'We need to help you feel less like a grown up, more like a Lost Boy.' Greg slowly started pushing the shirt from Mycroft's shoulders, throwing it onto the bed.

Mycroft quickly picked up on what was happening here, and slid his hands from Greg's waist to the cut-off tee, gripping the hems and leaning forward to kiss him eagerly until Greg raised his arms, allowing Mycroft to pull the shirt up and over his head, throwing the garment onto the bed along with his shirt. Their hands got a little caught up as they both went to get rid of the jeans and suit trousers. Greg laughed quietly, holding onto Mycroft's hands for a moment and kissing him again, beating him to it by catching him off guard and undoing the button on Mycroft's trousers. His hand brushed against him, and Mycroft found himself pressing closer to Greg, deepening the kiss and trying to get as much contact as possible.

As their waists lined up, Greg moaned quietly, wrapping his arms around Mycroft, both of them completely forgetting that they were supposed to be actually swapping clothes and instead Greg was pushing him against the wall and trying to kiss the breath out of him.

'We should…' Greg breathed against his lips with an air of reluctance. 'Get changed.'

Mycroft nodded sadly, breaking the kiss and resting their foreheads together as they tried to get their breath back.

'Greg… What does this all mean?' He asked carefully.

'I'm not sure.' Greg brushed through his hair softly, eyes closed, and smiled just slightly. 'It's new, that's for sure.' He admitted. 'A bit unnerving, maybe, and quite grown up.' He made soothing sounds as Mycroft instinctively tensed at the connection. 'In this case, I'm not sure that's a bad thing at all.' He told Mycroft calmly. 'I've been here a long time, and I'm no closer to growing up because of this. Honestly, I don't think it's a danger.' He kissed Mycroft's forehead, allowing the older boy to finally unbutton Greg's jeans.

They stepped apart to swap trousers, and Mycroft found himself smiling again. It was just like playing dress up, like he and Sherlock used to.

'How are you feeling?' Greg asked, looking over at him as Mycroft pulled on Greg's faded The Clash shirt and crouched to tie up the converse shoes.

'I'm feeling a lot better.' Mycroft smiled back, standing and rolling his shoulders. He certainly felt a lot different. There was no longer that weight of trying to appease his father, even here in Neverland, his shoulders felt lighter. In fact, he just felt lighter in general. He looked over at Greg, and started laughing. He looked so strange in Mycroft's clothes, like he was playing Let's Pretend and not quite managing to do it. Like he was dressing in his father's clothes.

'How do I look?' Greg asked, grinning cheekily and extending his arms as he turned a circle.

'Ridiculous.' Mycroft admitted. Greg pouted at the remark and walked closer, standing directly in front of him and frowning a little.

'Your hair is too smart, you can't be dressed like me and have boring hair.' He told Mycroft seriously, raising his hands and starting to push them through Mycroft's hair. To do this, he had to get closer, and within moments his lips were against Mycroft's once more, almost bruising them as he completely ruffled Mycroft's hair. But as ever, he pulled away before it could become more than that. 'There. Much better.'

'Well then you can't have you hair so cool as that, can you? Since my hair is usually so boring.' Mycroft reached out, laughing as he tried to flatten Greg's hair. All these initiated kisses that were suddenly being cut out were getting a little irritating, but Greg had a good reason to stop them, he supposed. After all, how could it turn out if the Lost Boys caught them doing _that_? And how far could they go, before it became too much, too weird, too _adult_?

It turned out Greg's hair was impossible to control, and just ended up looking even more of a mess than it had been when Mycroft had begun trying to fix it. 'I give up, that's going to have to do.' He sighed, stepping back and raising his hands. They stared at each other, at their kiss-bruised lips, and grinned.

Back in the main room, the Lost Boys all cut off their conversation and stared at them both. Sherlock was the first to break, laughing gleefully and running over, pausing in front of them both. He seemed unsure who to hug, and settled for Mycroft. The others joined in, all running over to pile on top of Mycroft, all talking at once about how brilliant he looked, and welcoming him to being a Lost Boy at last.

Greg stood over them, laughing, until Zak stepped up beside him. He'd been the only one not to join the friendly attack. 'You know.' He started, watching them with folded arms and an affectionate smile. 'You're really quite set on Mycroft, aren't you?'

Greg shrugged with one shoulder, grinning cheekily. 'I want him to recapture his childhood, is all.'

'Oh, come off it.' Zak laughed. 'There's something more than that. Most of us have already picked up on it.' Greg's eyes widened as he looked away, to Mycroft who still had most of the Lost Boys climbing over him, trying to get comfortable and just settling down. Sherlock had settled in the crook of his arm, resting on his shoulder, with Benjamin on the other side. Jake and Adric were clinging to his legs and Alex curled up to rest his head on Mycroft's chest. They all seemed quite worn out and Sherlock was quickly falling asleep, one arm hooked around John, the other holding onto Greg's shirt that Mycroft was wearing.

'Alright, maybe there is.' Greg admitted quietly. 'But we're not sure if we should acknowledge it yet. After all, we're Lost _Boys_, so really, we shouldn't do that sort of thing, right?' He turned slightly to look at Zak curiously.

'I think if Neverland is alright with is, as it clearly is, then we should be too.' Zak grinned. 'And if whatever you're doing is helping him realise he doesn't have to grow up so soon, then I think you should definitely keep doing it. Alex thinks so too, you know.'

Greg nodded, smiling widely. It was good to know he had at least the twins on his side. 'So have faith, Greg. You'll win him over, I'm sure.'

Mycroft tightened his grip around Benjamin and Sherlock, turning his head to hide his face in Sherlock's hair, smiling slightly.

Zak, Greg, Anderson and Sally carefully arranged blankets over the pile of Lost Boys before quietly leaving the room.

Outside the hideout, they had the remains of a fire from days back, and the four remaining Lost Boys went in search of wood to build it up. The weather on Neverland was never cold, but a faint chill was present, and they never needed a reason to build a fire, not really.

It was only really cold when Greg was feeling down, but that rarely happened. It seemed like when Peter left, Neverland went through a small phase of constantly being bad weather, storming, flooding Mermaid Lagoon, making Skull Rock look like it was crying, and pitching the Jolly Roger all over the sea.

But after a little while it had stopped sulking, and now Greg was in charge of the weather, as Peter had been before him. Perhaps in charge was the wrong term, since it simply catered to his whims. If he were feeling sad and miserable, it would rain. If he was angry, there would be thunder and lightening, if only for a few minutes. Often, he was happy and carefree, so there was a gentle, soft breeze and sunshine.

They each collected twigs, branches, anything that had fallen to the ground. They knew not to break anything off, since those branches weren't ready to give themselves up for use, and they had to respect their choices.

Greg called Dimmock over, and asked him to help light a fire. The little fairy looked a little perplexed at being called all the way from one of the gatherings just to light a fire they didn't even need. It wasn't even dark yet, but Greg charmed him around to it, convincing him that the sooner he did as Greg wanted, the sooner he could get back to festivities. The fairies never needed a reason to have a party or a ball, and frankly Greg found it all slightly tedious, but he was thinking of taking Mycroft some time, to show him how magical it all was.

The fire got blazing fairly quickly once Dimmock had set it going, and the remaining Lost Boys sat around it. Anderson and Sally started playing cards by the firelight, some form of snap but louder and more competitive.

Zak stayed closer to Greg, and they shared memories of bands they'd both loved back in London, even though now it was more like a faded thought, a song you hear a thousand times in the background but never really pick up the words. Sometimes they'd be able to catch lines or song titles, but only band names seemed to stick. The strongest memories were the feelings the songs and bands gave them, and that's what they reminisced over.

Zak fell asleep curled up beside Greg. Sally and Anderson were curled up a little too close to the fire, and Greg couldn't bring himself to sleep without Mycroft nearby.

It was strange, really, how they'd become so close so fast. He felt a strong urge to protect Mycroft, to help him through any problems he might have in any way possible. He couldn't stop thinking about kissing him against the wall, the mattress. It wasn't that he wanted power over Mycroft. Far from it. But by being over him, or between him and the world, he was able to protect him from everything that he was worried about.


	13. Chapter 13

WARNING: This chapter is really quite long. And includes content I'd not advise you read at work, unless your job is cool with gay stuff.

The following morning, Mycroft woke slowly, wondering when Greg had grown enough limbs to completely cover him like this, before realising it was just the Lost Boys. They were all waking at the same time, sitting up and trying to work out where they were and why they weren't in their beds. Mycroft looked around, and noticed Sally, Anderson, Zak and Greg weren't part of the pile he'd somehow become the focus of, and decided they must be outside.

Sherlock seemed a little reluctant to move, clutching John tighter and trying to look as asleep as possible. Mycroft kissed his hair and waited for Alex to roll off his stomach to sit up, pulling Sherlock around to hold in his arms, sprawled over his lap.

Jake and Adric were the first to properly get up, blinking a few times and heading outside. Alex looked a little lost without his twin nearby, and wandered off in search of him. Benjamin ran a hand through his hair and smiled at Mycroft in a silent greeting, staying nearby to wait for Sherlock.

'Sherlock, you can stop pretending to be asleep now.' Mycroft laughed slightly. Years ago, when Mycroft had been moved out of the nursery that was now Sherlock's room, Sherlock developed a habit of crawling into Mycroft's bed in his own room and pretending to be asleep when Mycroft woke up. He'd learnt to notice the signs of a Sherlock who was faking it, and one who really was asleep.

Sherlock didn't react at all, his face remaining perfectly clear. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and raised a hand to lift John away. Sherlock held onto him tighter, having to break his role for a moment.

Grinning to himself, Mycroft hovered his hand above Sherlock for a moment. He lifted it as high as he could go without moving Sherlock and waited a beat before plummeting his hand down through the air, accompanying it with childish sounds of a bomb falling, a kind of low whistle. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he screeched as the 'bomb' collided with his waist, complete with the sound effect of an explosion, to tickle him.

Sherlock screeched, twisting out of the way of more bombs, his laughter high and full of joy. Mycroft always heard it with a hint of sadness in his own head, knowing that sooner of later, that laugh would be lost forever as he slowly was forced to grow up by society. He hoped whomever Sherlock settled with allowed him to rediscover even a shadow of it, should he ever choose to return to London.

Well there was no denying he was certainly awake now, and before long he was clutching his sides and trying desperately to breathe through the laughter he couldn't cease, begging Mycroft to stop. He did so, holding his hands in the air as a sign of peace. Standing, he left Sherlock to recover and went in search of Greg.

The head Lost Boy was sat beside Zak, ruffling his hair in a friendly manner as Alex tried to encourage him to get up. As Greg looked up to see him, he muttered something to the Twins and got up, walking over to Mycroft and grinning.

'Good morning.' He stated. 'Seems you make quite a good pillow.'

'Not nearly so good as you.' Mycroft pointed out. 'Sorry about last night. They were all so comfortable, I just fell asleep.'

'It's fine.' Greg laughed. 'We don't always have proper sleeping hours, you know, that would be boring.' He called to the others that since they hadn't eaten last night, it was time for late dinner.

The Lost Boys cheered enthusiastically and started running, jumping or flying towards the table in the clearing not far away.

'Surely you mean breakfast?' Mycroft followed carefully, unsure if he'd missed an entire meal in Neverland every day since his arrival or if this was unplanned.

'Well, I'm sure that's what it is in London. But adults make their children eat _breakfast _so we decided we'd rather have is as late dinner, since that's what it really is, if we accidentally skip it the night before.'

Mycroft shrugged, realising it did make a little bit of sense when put like that.

With each day, Mycroft was feeling less and less like a grown up, or a kid on the cup of becoming one, and more and more like a Lost Boy.

He and Greg had swapped clothes again when it was unanimously decided that Greg looked wrong in suit clothes and Mycroft had the wrong hair to be a punk, but when putting on his own clothes, they didn't feel as heavy as they once had. Greg had joked that when wearing the shirt, he could feel the world bearing down on his shoulders, but that's what Mycroft had felt leave when he removed it each night. Now, though, once Greg had worn it for a while, it felt lighter.

They'd been tracking some sort of mythical creature whose Sherlock swore he'd found the prints of through the forest, and Mycroft had caught part of his trousers on a branch as they ran. The only way to amend it was to cut both parts of his trousers into knee length shorts. A part of him had lamented that tailored trousers were being hacked apart by these boys, but the Lost Boy side pointed out that they were beyond being saved anyway. Now, he was getting cuts a lot easier, but hardly noticing them any more.

Sherlock's clothes had undergone much the same treatment. His dark button up shirt no longer had sleeves due to an incident involving a cave and some rocks that he wasn't too comfortable with recounting in front of Mycroft, probably because he knew Mycroft wouldn't approve of what he and Benjamin were doing. Mycroft had already worked out it was likely a high slippery ledge that Sherlock should know better than to climb along, but held his tongue since Neverland didn't deal in punishment, only adventure and fun.

London was becoming more and more like a dream, or not even that any more. Mycroft had come to occasionally think of it as a story he'd heard a few times a lifetime ago. Sometimes he didn't even remember that he hadn't always lived on Neverland, that he actually had a mother and father somewhere who were probably worried sick about them. It just didn't occur to him any more.

When it did, when he had moments of being a grown up and seeing everything as it truly was, with 'adult eyes', he became aware of how very dangerous it could be to stay here. He was losing all knowledge of how to talk to new people, make small talk, even do simple things like buy food and what people moved around in. He thought they were called kars, but he couldn't be sure with each passing day.

Realisations like this usually alarmed him, and if he was flying anywhere he always quickly sunk, but Greg was there to catch him, to help him stay in the air or support him until he stopped thinking about such things. Greg had, when they were alone, taken to kissing him until the thought subsided, or kissing the crease between his eyebrows that always came into focus when he considered serious matters that ought not be known in Neverland.

It was moments like that that Mycroft had come to loathe and cherish. It was horrible, because he was being reminded how close he'd come to growing up, but in those moments, Greg held him close, against he chest, in his arms, or on top of him, arms outstretched and linked like they had been on their first night together, and sometimes he could feel Greg's heartbeat against chest, just as fast as his, in complete harmony.

But of course they never lasted. Each night, they'd kiss and it would become something more, and it was nearly always Greg who'd lost control of himself and taken it further, if not initiated it. And yet, he was always the one to pull away. No amount of apologies and soothing tones were enough to die down the frustration in Mycroft's gut. It was becoming easier and easier for them to become a little heated now, and more annoying whenever Greg put a stop to their activities. He felt one step away from shouting at him, asking if he even intended it go to further anyway, if there was any point him waiting around.

The Lost Boys were off playing some sort of game with the Indians, and Mycroft had turned down the offer to go with them, on the basis of remembering Molly would be a part of their games. Greg had declined the offer directly after, and a few minutes later the rest of the Lost Boys had run off towards the Indian camp, war paint at the ready and feathers tucked into their hair.

Greg waited only a little while before threading his hand with Mycrofts and smiling as he pulled him towards their room.

A part of him was carefully aware that they were completely alone right now, the Lost Boys weren't going to be interrupting them. The both of them were free to do as they please.

Greg slowly pushed him against the wall, crowding Mycroft in, smiling softly as he pressed himself close, kissing him slow at first and picking up the pace as they both quickly lost their patience.

Mycroft tried to put his arms around Greg's waist but two hands gripped his wrists, pinning them above him and taking away his ability to move. It was a loose grip, something he could easily twist out of, but knowing Greg wanted him was enough to let it stay.

He managed to shift his knee between Greg's own rebelliously, eagerly inhaling the moan he received for his actions. Maybe this time they were actually going to get somewhere, they were really going to do more than just kiss and get a little adventurous with their hands. Hell, he wasn't sure quite what he was expecting.

For several long moments, Mycroft really thought they were getting somewhere. He saw no reason for either of them to stop, after all. Greg seemed to be letting himself go a little further, no longer trying to hide his moans or gasps because there was point in it. They felt closer than they had for a long time, like the first time this had happened.

And suddenly, Greg was pulling away again, trying to quieten himself and breaking the contact. Mycroft paused, thinking maybe he was just out of breath, needing a moment to collect himself before continuing.

But the space between them was increasing, to the point of Greg now entirely apart from him, releasing his hands and moving out of reach. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and not quite looking at Mycroft any more.

'I think… Maybe…' Greg waited to get his breathing a little more underway. 'I think we shouldn't…'

Again. It had happened again, Greg had initiated something that was really looking promising, leading him into the room and giving him so many signs that he wanted desperately to follow, but now he was stopping him again with no cause. Mycroft sighed, trying to keep his irritation at bay. He'd been so hesitant about this, but Greg had continuously said he wanted to let this happen just as much as Mycroft did, they just needed to be alone. Then why stop now?

Maybe he'd lied, and he didn't want Mycroft at all. His stomach dropped at the thought, that perhaps Mycroft had just been a way to experiment or pass the time. It was foolish of him to think his fancies would be allowed here. He'd always been more interested in boys than the female population, and had long since accepted, it was ridiculous to assume Greg, a Lost Boy on top of everything, would be the same.

'Look, did I do something wrong?' He asked, unable to keep a hint of disappointment and frustration out of his tone. 'Is there something wrong with me, something you can't bring yourself to get to?' It was starting to sound self-deprecating, he knew, but it was the only reason he could think of.

'No.' Greg looked up sharply, eyes widening. 'No, of course not.'

'Then why the hell am I just left, every single time?' The impatience was starting to grow, he didn't think he'd be able to keep himself in check this time. 'Ever since that night, every single time bar one or two, you've initiated this. You've always been the first to kiss me, to touch me, get closer to me. And yet, _every time_, you insist on stopping, because the Lost Boys are in the next room, or we should be somewhere, or we should be asleep. And fine, I get that, just about. Not why you started in that situation, but why you stopped. But this, this is just cruel, Greg.' He shook his head angrily. 'I don't understand it. I don't see why you'd let us get this far and always stop.'

Greg tried to speak, but Mycroft held up a hand, stopping him. 'I don't want some stupid excuse like you can't explain it, or you think here isn't a good place. I just… A little consistency would be helpful. If you're going to keep kissing me, I'd appreciate you telling me that it stands a chance of being more than a simple kiss, something that I'm going to want to continue. If it doesn't, tell me now, please, so I can stop wanting. I get it, if that's the case. I'm not exactly perfect. I'm the most awkward Lost Boy here. I'm less of one that Sally, for God's sake.'

Greg didn't seem to have any words for him, which suited Mycroft just perfectly. He took it to mean he was right, it was never going to lead anywhere. Turning, he clenched his fists. 'Right, then. I'll just go join the others, since we're obviously done here. And I'll sleep in the main room, if I'm that much of an inconvenience to you. I guess you just didn't know how to say it, but now I've done it for you, so never mind.'

He stepped past the bed, stomach churning again. He felt like he was going to be quite ill. This was his first argument, his first proper argument. Usually, when father had ordered him to do something he didn't want to do, he just did it because it was easier than trying to fight a battle he wasn't going to win. But this time, he'd stood up for himself and ended up with less than he'd started with. It didn't seem fair at all. Neverland was full of dreams and everything you could want, but this didn't seem to follow those rules at all. Everything he wanted, his dream, was still in the room, but he felt further away than ever.

Before he could get to the door, a hand pressed his chest and propelled him backwards, onto the bed.

'Don't you dare think you're not brilliant.' Greg growled into his ear, crawling over him and taking hold of his wrists again tighter than before. His knees were either side of Mycroft's waist, and he put pressure on his wrists as he crouched down to claim Mycroft's lips again roughly. It seemed Mycroft had struck a chord, since now Greg wasn't leaving any room for him to even struggle. Now his hands were completely unable to move, and Greg was over him, he had a calming sensation despite the near anger radiating from the Lost Boy. There was nothing here that he could do wrong, because Greg was in charge and Greg would do whatever he wanted.

His lips were forced apart as Greg deepened the kiss, determined to taste every part of his mouth, and Mycroft willingly kissed him back, relishing the sensation of Greg letting himself go like this.

By the time Mycroft was struggling for breath and unable to think of anything except Greg, he was quite convinced the other boy was along the same lines. The fact that the only places of contact right now were his lips, the hands holding his wrists firmly above his head, and Greg's knees either side of his waist was an amazing feeling, like the rest of his body felt incredibly deprived but the skin in contact with him felt on fire.

Just when it wasn't enough any more, Greg moved away from his now bruised lips, kissing along his jaw and across his neck, eliciting half sounds of need and want from Mycroft's lips as he realised along with Greg just how sensitive his neck was. Greg payed particular attention to his pulse point, resting his tongue against the skin to feel the pulse accelerating far above the normal.

Greg pushed Mycroft's hands together, forcing him to hold his wrists together as he kissed along to his ear. 'Don't move your hands, Mycroft.' He commanded, and Mycroft took note of how rough his voice had become. He nodded, clenching his fists and not shifting them at all when Greg released his grip and began unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt. He kissed across his collarbone for a short while, paying close attention to the soft skin stretched over it, until kissing across the newly revealed skin as each button was separated fro the slit in material that it usually inhabited.

It was a haze for some time after, and by the time Greg pushed his shirt either side of his chest, Mycroft was having trouble remembering much of anything.

'You're mine, Mycroft.' Greg whispered against his lips, barely brushing them with his own. 'I'm sorry I kept stopping us, stopping this. I was nervous, and I know you are too. But I just want to help you, look after you. Protect you.' He moved down again, kissing just below his collarbone. 'I want you to remember that you are mine.'

'I'll remember.' Mycroft managed, shocked at the change in his own voice. It was lower than he was used to, and he wondered if it always was when they did this, and he'd never noticed because he didn't usually talk.

'Well now you'll see, too.' Greg puts his lips against his skin again, but added a faint grazing of teeth that had Mycroft's back arching against him and a moan that sounded slightly like his name escaping his lips.

Greg pulled the section of skin upwards, into his mouth, lightly sealing his teeth around it and applying a small amount of pressure. The sensation was entirely new, and Mycroft wondered why he didn't know about this before. He wasn't completely sure what was happening right now, but as Greg pulled away and trailed his tongue over the area, he noticed it felt slightly sore, like a bruise. Greg had just bruised his skin with his mouth, marked him completely as his own. Whenever Mycroft saw this bruise now, he'd remember this moment.

'You see, Mycroft?' Greg asked softly, kissing up his neck again and hovering just millimetres against his lips. 'I intend to keep you now. I didn't mean to upset you, I just wasn't sure quite how to go about having you. But I think I know now. You like this, don't you?' Mycroft nodded, trying to close the gap between them and kiss him, but Greg moved away, tutting gently. 'Not quite yet.'

This was impossible, Mycroft thought. Not half an hour ago they'd been sat with the other Lost Boys trying to work out what to do with their day, and now Mycroft was being pressed into the bed, feeling frankly teased by how beautiful Greg's voice had become, and he wasn't sure of how to spell his own name any more. His thoughts were entirely quiet apart from being full of Greg, full of the fact that he wanted him enough to claim him as his own, mark him as his property.

Greg kept him waiting a few more seconds until it seemed he couldn't help himself and he pressed his lips against Mycroft's again.

His hands ran across Mycroft's chest in a manner that suggested he wasn't doing it on purpose any more, and Mycroft felt like he was being mapped out, as if after this, Greg would be able to intimately describe Mycroft's skin and know it better than it's owner.

As Greg's hands pressed against his hips, outlining the bones pressing out under the skin with a closeness that had him nearly gasping. It felt like everything had melted away and all that was left was Greg, stimulating him and keeping him going, like if he stopped or moved away Mycroft may cease to exist. He wasn't the type for hypothetical situations that were impossible but it was difficult to think as he usually did when this was happening.

The hold on his hip tightened, and Greg's lips moved down to his neck again as his hand drifted down over Mycroft's waist and lower, eliciting a choked moan. Mycroft arched up against Greg, needing more pressure and contact, desperate to feel more of Greg's skin against his own. Greg smiled against his neck, grazing it with his teeth lightly as he repeated the action with a little more pressure. Mycroft heard a faint whimper and realised mutely that it had come from him.

'Do you want this, Mycroft?' Greg asked quietly. The air around them felt heavy enough that Mycroft was sure he couldn't speak any louder without it being pushed down by the atmosphere. He nodded, words long since passed. He didn't feel the need for vocabulary any more, Greg would take care of everything for him and stop him needing to do anything. He twisted his wrists, but only to clench and unclench his fists, balling up some of the material on the pillows to ground himself.

It seemed Greg didn't need any more convincing, pushing his palm roughly over Mycroft's trousers and holding onto him through the material without warning. He heard Greg breathe his name against his throat, and that was almost as enticing as what he was actually doing. It sounded like he hadn't been able to prevent himself from saying it; Mycroft was the only thing on his mind. He wasn't sure he'd ever been the main focus of somebody's attention for good reasons but this seemed a good start.

Greg removed his hand, and Mycroft whined needily, trying to press himself up against the other boy to gain any sort of friction.

'If you dare stop now…' He stated breathlessly, his threats completely destroyed by the fact that he sounded half starved of oxygen and half drunk on Greg's kisses and touch. Greg laughed slightly, deftly unbuttoning Mycroft's trouser button and opening his mouth to speak.

But it wasn't quite enough. Mycroft found he wanted the chance to cause these feelings in Greg, to hear him as he got more and more desperate due to him. He quickly brought his hands down again, pressing them onto Greg's shoulders and turning, flipping them so that he was on top of Greg. The main Lost Boy looked up at him, a bewildered expression on his face as he tried to work out what had just happened. Mycroft smiled down at him, taking a moment to catalogue what he looked like from this angle. His lips were bruised, eyes wide and dark, and his chest was shuddering underneath his shirt.

'It's a bit unfair, don't you think?' Mycroft asked him quietly, pleased to hear his own voice richer than it usually was. 'Do undress me and make me feel like this without letting yourself feel the same.' He leaned down, nuzzling Greg's jawline gently. It felt like the beginnings of stubble were just under the surface. It seemed Greg had got to Neverland just in time, or he'd been allowed to grow up by Neverland just to the point before he reached adulthood.

Greg leant into the touch, closing his eyes and sighing softly. Mycroft smiled triumphantly, moving out of reach for a moment and taking hold of the edge of Greg's tee. He realised that there was no easy way to remove it like this and let go of it. Bringing his hands to intertwine his fingers with Greg's, he gently moved their joined hands to rest above his head. It felt strange, seeing it from this angle. Like something was just a little bit wrong. As he let Greg's hands go, he could feel Greg wanting to follow his hands, to take back a little control. But he hadn't been allowed it, so why should Greg?

It was much easier to manipulated the material over Greg's torso now, and to throw it across the room. He knew he still wearing his shirt, it was hanging from one the shoulder, with the other slipping part-way down his arm, but the way Greg looked at him made him feel inclined to refrain from removing it. It made him feel a little less insecure, a little better at the situation he'd decided to commandeer.

Now he thought about it, he realised he didn't even really know how to take control here. Greg always had, Greg was the one that knew how to handle it. He decided to replicate his actions in hope of it working, and pressed one hand hesitantly against the front of Greg's jeans. Greg arched against him, as he had, and gasped his name, hands instantly coming to his shoulders for purchase as he clung to him. He held onto him so tight Mycroft felt like he was going to get bruises, and tipped his head back, eyes closing tightly.

God, it was the most mesmerising thing Mycroft had seen for in his life. He did it again, trying to memorise every single action as much as he could. Greg looked beautiful, having given up all control and giving himself over to Mycroft. He was the cause for this reaction.

'Do… Do that again.' Greg breathed, voice nearly impossible to hear unless Mycroft listened as much as he could. 'Please….'

Mycroft was only too happy to oblige, gladly pressing his palm down. In a moment of curiosity, he turned his hand over, running his knuckles along Greg's length and smirking at the sound the boy beneath him made. He could spend hours doing this, just listening to him and seeing what reactions he could get. If he could capture them as photographs, he knew he would.

It still wasn't quite enough, though. He undid the button on the jeans, and paused. There were two ways he could do this, and he knew one of them would be a little scary.

Decided he might as well do it, Mycroft lowered himself down, resting his hands on Greg's hips to stabilise, and flicked his tongue under the metal bar proving as the main body of the zip and catching it between his teeth. Greg raised his head to look at him and he stared, wide eyed and disbelieving, for a few moments that felt like eternity before moaning softly and letting his head fall back again.

Mycroft took this as a queue to continue his actions and slowly, so very slowly, began to drag the zip down, feeling each tooth of the line spring apart from it's corresponding peg as he took his time. He could tell by the shape that he was working over the very part of Greg's body that he was both thrilled and terrified to explore, and the sounds Greg was making – probably without even meaning to any more – were just beautiful.

He was almost disappointed when he got to the end of the zip, and slowly began kissing his way back up Greg's chest, not quite ready to go _there_ yet. Greg threaded a hand into his hair, locking the strands around his fingers tightly, and Mycroft paused his movements before kissing along his collarbone.

It occurred to him that he was marked but Greg wasn't, so he lightly placed an open mouthed kiss against his skin a lightly scraped his teeth across his soft skin, nearly grinning at the moan from Greg below him. Encouraged, he pulled it between his teeth gently and tried his best to leave a bruise. It wasn't as easy as he'd imagined it to be, he wasn't sure if he was doing it right or being too rough, but Greg was now squirming beneath him helplessly, arching against him needily.

Letting go, Mycroft rested the tip of his tongue against the mark for a moment until the urge to kiss Greg again became too much and he claimed his lips softly.

Greg's hand wrapped around his neck, instead burying itself in the shorter hairs at the base of his hairline, and the other slid down his chest, confidently slipping further still until the only thing separating his hand from Mycroft's skin was his underwear.

Mycroft gasped, accidentally biting Greg's bottom lip, and repeated Greg's action in retaliation, drawing a choked sound that resembled his name in return.

Their movements were clumsy and in any other situation Mycroft was sure that would be embarrassing, but here it wasn't. They were both so desperate to get as close to each other and do something that felt so impossible and even rebellious that being precise didn't matter.

Greg's hand pressed past the last layer of material, forcing Mycroft to back out of the kiss to rest his forehead against Greg's and battle for breath. The friction and texture of Greg's slightly rough hands against his sensitive skin was enough to make him subconsciously press against him. Part of him remembered to copy Greg and wrap his fingers around Greg too, and he found himself a little mesmerised by how hot Greg was in his hand.

He felt something coiling in his stomach, closing his eyes as his muscles tensed up and his senses sputtered to a halt. All he could do was exhale shakily and try to keep himself from collapsing again Greg but moments later hot liquid covered his hand and he allowed himself to fall onto the bed beside the other Lost Boy, still struggling for breath.

After a few minutes of the only sound being the two of them trying to get themselves back in check, Greg laughed softly and pulled Mycroft closer, encouraging him to curl up against him.

'Do you still doubt my affections?' He asked quietly, kissing Mycroft's hair. Mycroft shook his head, wrapped an arm over his waist and rubbing his cheek against the front of Greg's shoulder, humming contentedly.

His bones all felt like they weren't quite capable of moving properly, his muscles weren't responding as they usually did. Even his mind was quieter, thoughts sluggish and minimalist.

'I'm sorry I reacted like that.' He murmured, struggling to keep his eyes open. 'I was just feeling a little…' He trailed off, unable to think of the appropriate vocabulary. Unloved? Used?

'Unappreciated?' Greg asked. When Mycroft didn't reply, he rubbed his thumb soothingly against Mycroft's arm, tucking him a little closer. 'I'm sorry, Mycroft. I didn't mean to. I was just a little wary of how to go about getting so close to you. You may have had relationships before, but I've been in Neverland more than half my life. I've never done something like that before. Have you?'

Mycroft shook his head shyly. It was a bit of a joke in his boarding school, his lack of relationship status. 'I don't have time for relationships. Schoolwork takes up all my time. When you came and got me, I was trying to work through essays I'd been set. I do work every day, most of the day, so the fact that I still had work to do pretty much explains it. Father used to make me do more, too.

'That's too much work for a kid your age, Mycroft.' Greg frowned. 'Surely, you should be able to have some time to yourself without stressing about work. Doesn't your dad let you have any fun?'

Mycroft couldn't stop himself laughing with a hint of bitterness. 'Fun isn't exactly something that's encouraged at home. It's a wonder Sherlock still has the energy and enthusiasm he has. It'll be gone in a few years, though.'

'Not any more.' Greg squeezed him fondly. 'Because you're both here, and I'm helping you.'

Mycroft nodded, but a thought slowly dawned on him. 'I know time travels differently, especially depending on if it's the book or the movie, but do you think days or even weeks have passed since you brought us here?' He shifted to look up at him.

'Well I don't know what you mean by movies, but generally, it depends. I'm not entirely sure how it really works, since I just stay in Neverland itself, and none of the Lost Boys have ever expressed a desire to go home, not since Peter took most of his lot with him to stay with the Darlings and I had to find myself a new group. The twins were here for a little while with Peter, so they remember him. Although.' He paused, frowning into the dimly lit room. 'When I first found you, I was trying to visit Peter. It felt like it had only been a short while since I had seen him, but suddenly your family were where he used to be. Peter had been steadily growing up anyway, so it was perhaps a blessing. Seeing the boy who never grew up slowly becoming a young man was a little saddening.'

Mycroft nodded, still trying to accept that his and Sherlock's childhood hero had lived in the same house as them, run the same corridors and slept in the same rooms.

'I'm glad you did, though.' Mycroft breathed. 'That you were slightly wrong and you found us instead.' He paused. 'But… What made you keep coming back, once you knew Peter wasn't there any more?'

'I'm not entirely sure.' Greg smiled cheekily. 'There was a charming boy in one of the rooms, always sat at his desk or giving himself a break to sleep. He caught my interest.'

Mycroft smirked. 'Oh, really? Why would that be, then?'

'I'm still not entirely sure. But his hair colour fascinated me. And the way his…' He added a joking hint of distaste to his voice. 'Adult suits were very well fitted, I must say. And his voice… I spent many a night outside the window just listening to him talking himself through the essays he was writing.'

Mycroft laughed off the worry he felt at that, wondering desperately if he'd said anything that Greg would use against him. 'That's a little bit stalkerish, Greg.'

'Oh, very stalkerish.' He laughed. 'I fully admit that. And there's something else about him that I only recently found out, but I'm not sure he'd be comfortable with me telling just anybody this.'

'I think he'd want me to know.'

'Well he's a fantastic kisser.' Greg stated. Mycroft laughed and shifted a little more to look up and kiss him softly.

'This boy, I think I've met him once before.' Mycroft murmured against his lips. 'He told me you're not too bad yourself.'

'Not too bad?' Greg sounded like he was trying to be offended, but Mycroft kissed him again to silence him, smiling happily when it worked. He uncurled at Greg's side and rolled to be laying on him, kissing him languidly. Greg smirked against his lips and flipped them both, swapping the positions. 'You've had your moment in charge.' He breathed. 'And I hope it was enlightening.'

'It was.' Mycroft lifted a hand to run through his hair, deciding it was far too flat for his liking. 'But I prefer it like this.'

Greg hummed agreeably and turned his head slightly to slot their lips together better. They stayed kissing for a few minutes until Mycroft found himself too tired and regretfully pulled away. Greg smiled, rolling them both to be on their sides facing each other. He tangled their legs together and pressed his clean hand against the side of his face, thumb lightly scuffing his cheekbone.

'Are you tired, Myc?' He asked softly. Mycroft nodded, yawning quietly and getting as close as possible. One of his hands was still sticky, since neither of them had bothered to move away from the bed and find something to clean them both up.

'Sleep, then, love.' Greg smiled, kissing his forehead softly and wrapping securely around him. Mycroft nodded obediently and found himself falling asleep almost instantly, tucked very close against Greg.


	14. Chapter 14

'Mycroft? Mycroft, wake up.' Hands were gently shaking him as Mycroft slowly opened his eyes, blinking and instantly getting closer to the warm body against him out of instinct. The chest he was against shook a little as the person laughed. 'Mycroft, you need to try to properly waking up. There's something I want to show you.'

Mycroft mumbled something that he wanted to sound like 'in a minute' but didn't sound anything like he wanted it to.

'Whatever you were just saying, you really do need to get up. We have to leave soon if we're to arrive in time.' Greg shook him gently again.

The statement was enough to inspire Mycroft to slowly open his eyes and look up at Greg as he rubbed his eyes. 'Where're we going?' He asked, momentarily started by his still rough voice. Slowly, he took in what had happened that day, while the Lost Boys had been enough, and wondered if that was the cause for his vocal chords to be a little strained.

'You'll see.' Greg smiled.

It took a short while to coax Mycroft out of bed and get them both respectably dressed again. Mycroft had paused while buttoning up his shirt, staring down fondly at the bruise over his chest and over to Greg. Greg had noticed, smiled broadly, and kissed him affectionately before trying to hurry him on.

He didn't tell Mycroft anything as they quietly made their way through the forests, only stopping to listen for something Mycroft couldn't hear. He speculated that maybe it was like the colours he'd seen as he entered Neverland, the colours he couldn't identify. Perhaps there were sounds he couldn't hear either, because he'd grown up. Like the saying that once you stop believing, you can no longer hear the sleigh bells as Santa approaches.

'Look, Greg, this is all very mysterious, but I'd appreciate not being so in the dark.' He stated. 'Can you please tell me where we're going? Are we joining the Lost Boys? If so, why aren't we going towards the Indian settlement and being so secretive?'

Greg just smiled in return, reaching for Mycroft's hand and intertwining their fingers. He kept the grip loose, to the point that neither of them were really gripping the other. It was easier than holding hands properly, but still nicer than walking alone, knowing their connection was being maintained purely by being locked together.

It was getting quite unbearable, not knowing the location they were headed towards. Whenever Mycroft asked all he received was a secretive smile and a promise that he'd see.

It seemed like they'd been walking for hours, though it may only have been a short time, and the sky was becoming splashed with an array of pale purples, blues, oranges and greens that Mycroft would never have seen back in London.

Eventually, they slowed down, and Mycroft couldn't stop himself asking if there were there now. Greg kissed him once, briefly, to silence him, and pressed a finger against his lips softly before carefully leading him through some more trees.

Mycroft could tell they were nearly at their destination when he saw a glow, a couple of hundred meters away. He opened his mouth to ask, but remembered the silent request and closed it again.

Greg lifted himself off the floor slightly and gestured for Mycroft to do the same so that they could make no sound as they moved through the undergrowth towards the light. Mycroft tried to think about what they could possibly be doing here, what they were going to see. It was in his nature to feel a need to know what he was headed into, something his father had forced into him a long time ago.

Very gently, Greg pushed back a large fern leaf, and Mycroft could see.

There was a tall, bare tree in the middle of an open patch of ground. At first, it didn't look like anything in particular, but as Mycroft looked it seemed to be glowing from the inside. Frowning, he tried to edge closer, but Greg's arm barred his way.

'We need to be careful.' He mouthed, with just enough effort to sound like he was barely whispering. Mycroft nodded, waiting for Greg to move and following his lead.

The other Lost Boy carefully moved across the soil, a few centimetres above it, and gestured Mycroft follow. As he got closer, he noticed a gap in the bark, followed by several more as he approached.

Looking through the breaks in the bark, Mycroft saw tiny beings, and instantly identified them as fairies. He tried to locate Dimmock, or Tink, but couldn't find either of them. He made a mental note to ask after Tinkerbell as soon as they left this area.

A soft music, like many angelic bells, was coming from inside the tree, yet Mycroft was unable to see what it was coming from. He looked at Greg, wondering if they could talk, and Greg smiled back, nodding.

'Where's the music coming from?' He asked as quietly as he could, recreating the sound that was barely a whisper that Greg had used moments before.

'You can hear bells, right?' Greg replied, and Mycroft nodded. 'There is no musician, no band or record. That is the sound of hundreds of fairies all singing together in perfect harmony.'

Mycroft stared back at the fairies in awe. There were indeed hundreds, all with a partner, twirling each other and moving in synchronisation that allowed them to never hit each other. They were spread throughout the hollowed trunk, all the way to the top and even some out on the empty branches.

'For fairies, there is always cause to have a party.' He continued, smiling. 'I'm never quite sure what it is at any one time. I think they simply celebrate the fact that they are alive.'

Mycroft was gently pulled away from staring in at all the fairies, at each of their gowns and outfits in pure wonder, to look into Greg's eyes as the other boy took hold of both his hands.

He rose them both a little further from the ground and slowly began spinning them. Mycroft grinned, pressing himself closer at the movement, not trusting himself to stay in the air without support.

Laughing softly, Greg wrapped an arm around Mycroft's waist, moving one of Mycroft's arms to copy him, and extended the hand holding onto Mycroft's until they were in a classic dancing pose.

'Shouldn't one of us have their hand on the other's shoulder?' Mycroft asked softly. Greg shrugged half heartedly but nodded some.

'Well, yes, but which of us is the woman?' Greg asked, smiling cheekily. Mycroft laughed, not bothering to adjust his hand now he had that as an excuse.

They stepped on the air as if it were a dance floor, a little clumsy at first but eventually getting into a rhythm of synchronisation. Their steps didn't entirely match the music radiating from the tree, but Mycroft remembered seeing some fairies inside the bark who didn't match it at all and had seemed, in fact, to be dancing to their own music. He mused silently that that was perhaps the best way to go about it. To dance how you want to rather than how anybody else wishes you to.

Once they settled into a certain way that was a few beats behind the music, Mycroft felt it drown out, and all he was focused on was Greg, in front of him, holding onto him. It felt like the rest of his body was on autopilot but he could feel the parts of himself that were being held by Greg as if they were on fire. Every now and again he looked down to check their feet were in time but found that if he tried to make his feet move properly, he messed it up and stumbled over the steps. It reminded him vaguely of those big computers father was trying to make him use whenever he could, saying they were going to be important in later life. If he tried to press the right keys without looking, he always hit the wrong ones, but if he didn't think about it, muscle memory kicked in and he found the right keys being pressed most of the time.

'What're you thinking about?' Greg asked, bringing him back to Neverland and away from the memories he was trying not to think about. 'Whatever it is, stop it. You're falling.'

Mycroft realised that Greg was pretty much holding him up right now, the arm around his waist gripping him tightly to keep him from hitting the ground just below them. Mycroft smiled apologetically and shook his head. 'It was nothing, sorry. I was just comparing something.'

'Something here with something in London?' Greg asked, shifting so Mycroft's feet were standing on his to keep him up better.

'Yes. Sorry, I know. Try not to think about it all.' He hung his head slightly, feeling the guilt that he couldn't do what Greg wanted rise up.

'Hey, Myc.' A hand released his, tilted his chin up. 'I don't mind. I know it isn't easy.' His chocolate brown eyes caught Mycroft's and held them prisoner, forcing honestly from him. 'It really is okay.'

Mycroft nodded as best he could with Greg's hand under his jaw, and tried a weak smile. 'Sometimes I just realise how close you were to being too late. A matter of days. And I wonder if you weren't in time. If you were in fact too late, but Neverland was trying to fix it. It can't always be right. I might be too grown up. Like the pirates. Maybe I was brought here to see how things could have been, as a sort of punishment, like them.' He could hear his own voice, foreign in it's emotional state.

'Mycroft, you need to listen to me.' Greg's voice took on a calming tone, soothing his fears and halting his thoughts. 'The Pirates were brought here because they wanted to be Lost Boys but were too full of darkness and cruelty for Peter to want them. You have none of that darkness and cruelty. That's a completely ridiculous thought, I assure you.' He kissed him softly, encouraging him to kiss back for a moment. 'Everything this island does is for a reason. I was directed to you because I was meeting Peter, yes, but there must be a reason I met you too late. A reason I felt compelled to come back. Even if that isn't the case, being a Lost Boy is so different from what you're used to doing. Here, you don't have any work, no deadlines that I've heard you muttering about in your sleep.'

Mycroft blushed. Greg had never mentioned that before. He wanted to ask which deadlines, but knew it wasn't actually important here. He couldn't do anything about it anyway here.

'So stop worrying about that, okay?' Greg smiled affectionately. 'I know worrying is in your nature, you seem to worry constantly, but try to direct it somewhere else. Like to what we'll do tomorrow, or something. Somewhere it will have an affect.'

Nodding, Mycroft closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and thinking about finding the treasure, seeing Sherlock's excited expression when they'd flown over London, Greg's hand in his in the main room while everyone else had been running around. As he ran it all over in his mind, he felt lighter, until he was able to hang in the air in front of Greg without aid. Greg smiled, the smile that made him look like the little boy Peter had brought here such a long time ago, and Mycroft smiled back, feeling pressure alleviate from his shoulders as his muscles relaxed.

'That's better. Much better.' Greg picked up the steps they'd halted during their discussion, letting it carry them not just in a small circle any more but around the tree. Mycroft followed the steps after a moment of hesitation, not looking down at their feet and letting his muscles remember how to do it, leaving him free to contemplate other things that he considered important. As he let his mind wander aimlessly through the caverns of his thoughts, he became aware of a feeling. It had appeared a few times recently, like earlier when they were both in bed, closer than he'd been with anybody, and when they'd twisted together on the journey to Neverland, so close he could feel Greg's heartbeat for the first time. Mycroft wondered if this feeling in his stomach, as if the fairies in the tree were dancing inside him, was something to do with the music, or perhaps the faint dizziness threatening him due to spinning around the tree. Or maybe the culprit was in fact all down to the way Greg was looking at him, subconsciously smiling as if he couldn't help himself, eyes full of something Mycroft couldn't name but instantly identified with.

Something registered in Greg's eyes, reflecting his own, and Mycroft knew, in that very moment that they were surrounded by fairies in a place Mycroft had begun to fear didn't exist, or know he existed, that whatever was between them, it connected them. Like a strong gold line of a spider's web. He felt sure that nothing could break this strange feeling, this sensation of fulfilment. He searched his mind for words, but came up entirely blank, left only with the feeling itself, so raw it almost hurt. He wondered if it was deadly, but realised if it was, and Greg had it too, at least they'd die together. And he couldn't think of a better way for either of them to die, no matter how morbid it sounded or felt. It just felt right, and entirely honest.


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft had no idea how much time had passed before Greg brought them to a stop and quietly told him they should probably head back. Mycroft nodded, feeling incredibly light headed and once they let their feet cautiously land on the floor again, Mycroft stumbled. He'd become so used to the air beneath his feet that suddenly having something very real and solid to stand on threw his balance off completely.

As ever, Greg was behind him to keep him standing, and wrapped his hands around Mycroft's him from behind to steady him, guiding him to lean back against his chest slightly until he was sure he'd be able to walk properly. Once he was sure, Greg still lingered for a few more moments before linking their hands together again. He lead the way for a while through the forest that seemed to glow around them until he paused, and stopped, turning to Mycroft.

'Perhaps you'd like to lead the way this time?' He asked, smiling softly. Mycroft frowned, wondering how he was supposed to know the way better than Greg. But as he thought about it, he realised he did know the way, he knew they were actually going in slightly the wrong direction. His eyes widened as he looked at Greg again, receiving a grin in return.

'You see? Lost Boys always know where they are and the direction towards where they're headed. It's something that's lost as you grow up. But you've still got it, as I knew you eventually would.'

Mycroft nodded, happily stepping past him and leading the direction towards the place he'd come to subconsciously refer to as home.

As they neared it, they heard laughter and shouting, accompanied by the disjointed sound of many feet hitting the floor out of sync. Mycroft regretfully dropped Greg's hand and stepped into the clearing that was in front of the entrance to the caves they lived in, just as the Lost Boys fell through the undergrowth opposite them. They all had Indian make-up on, from simple lines over the cheeks and nose to hand prints across their face. Mycroft noticed it had even been applied to John, still held tightly in Sherlock's hand. They were all singing something out of tune and not at the same time, making it difficult to tell what the lyrics were.

Sherlock had a few colourful feathers tangled into his hair, as did Sally, and the twins had matching temporary tattoo's on their arms just below their shoulders. A strand of Adric's hair had beads threaded onto it, carelessly knotted at the end to prevent them falling off, and they were all grinning with joy.

'You had a good time, then?' Greg asked over the noise they were making as everyone ran towards them. On queue, the Lost Boys started talking at once, raising their voices to be heard over one another. 'Alright, alright. One at a time!' Greg tried, laughing when it didn't work and each assumed they were going first. Sighing, he separated himself from the group and cleared his throat, voice taking on a commanding air. 'Attention!' His shout reminded Mycroft very clearly of a drill sergeant, and on command he saw the Lost Boys form a messy line, going silent and standing straight. 'That's better.' He nodded, allowing a slight smile to grace his lips.

'Right, you lot. I can tell you have a lot to talk about, so when I point at you, throw me what you have to say, then I'll move on, since you can't keep yourselves in check.'

He did so, and it generally seemed that the Indians had helped organise a tracking, playing Cowboys and Indians with them for most of the day. Molly had been the queen and the Indians were trying to protect her from the Lost Boys that were being the Cowboys. Once the evening was drawing in, the Chief had asked them to stay for dinner, refusing the humble attempts at declinations a few had thrown at him. The Chief seemed to be able to tell that they wanted to stay really, and insisted. At that point they'd all put on the makeup and accessories, and danced around the fire before dinner. Afterwards they'd listened to stories about the Redman, the Indian's ancestors, until their food had been digested. Finally, at the end of the evening, they sang songs and danced again. Adric was quite smug about getting to dance with Molly twice, whereas everyone else only got to once.

'Right, well, it seems you had a brilliant day!' Greg grinned at them all when the recount was over. 'So you've all eaten already?' They nodded. 'Still hungry?' Everyone instantly started shouting about how starving they were, and Greg simply nodded his head in the direction of the dinner table. Within moments everyone was running or flying towards it, talking to one another again.

'Appears they had quite a day.' Mycroft noted dryly. Greg turned, laughing.

'Yes, it does a bit.' He stepped closer, kissing Mycroft's jawline. 'But I think our day was better, don't you?'

'Oh, I don't know.' Mycroft feigned thinking it over. 'Cowboys and Indians does sound awfully fun. And all that dancing.' Greg nibbled his ear playfully.

'Fine, I won't let our day happen again, if it was so unsatisfactory.' He breathed quietly. Mycroft closed his eyes against his will, sighing a little.

'I never said that.' He insisted. 'Perhaps another day like today would help me to be sure. One time isn't conclusive enough. You might have just been lucky today, but usually you're not so good.'

'We'll just see about that, won't we?' Greg laughed, breath tickling his ear and sending shivers down his spine to pool at the small of his back to a level that was somewhere between uncomfortable and tantalisingly perfect. He hummed in firm agreement, unable to bring words to the forefront of his mind any more, and whined slightly when Greg stepped away again. 'We don't want to be late for dinner'

Nodding, Mycroft smiled, glad to feel like Greg definitely hadn't been repelled by the things that had happened earlier. He'd been so unsure of himself he couldn't tell if Greg would want it to happen again, but was glad to see he did.

Fireflies were milling around in the trees surrounding the area the table was situated, lighting up the area in combination with the bright moon. It was significantly larger and brighter than Mycroft was used to, and it still caught him off guard when he looked up at it. He could see the craters easier now, and realised it must be because they were inside one of the stars he used to look at, and he was so much closer than he used to be.

The other stars in the sky, he noticed, didn't look like he was used to, either. A few of them seemed to be winking down at him, and quite a few of them were the blast of white that he'd come to associate with stars.

Some were deep purple, red, gold, blue, orange, green. It looked like a material that was deep mix between midnight blue and a dash of blank had been covered in glitter. Sometimes there were collections of stars that were the same colour, and Mycroft identified them as constellations. On this night they seemed brighter than ever, but he wondered idly if that was only because he was starting to see things in a different light now, so to speak.

He tried to pay attention to what he was eating, enough to know it was cheese and cucumber sandwiches with ginger beer, but he was distracted by the stars, by the thoughts occupying his mind. The Lost Boys began to fall asleep in their food, and Greg sent them to bed, rousing Mycroft from his thoughts to remind him that they should go back. Once they got to the clearing again, the Lost Boys walked ahead, probably to go straight to bed, and Greg gently guided Mycroft to lay down on the grass, laying beside him so they were both staring up.

'What have you been thinking about?' He asked softly, tucking an arm under his head like a pillow and extending his arm for Mycroft to do the same, tugging him closer against him. 'You've not seemed worried, so it's not something about London, is it?'

'No, far from it.' Mycroft laughed slightly at the bad joke he'd accidentally said, and pointed up at the sky above them. 'I've been thinking about the stars.' He waited a beat, trying to form the sentences correctly before voicing them. 'I've been wondering if they're just planets, stars, like I've been taught all my life, or if they're more places like Neverland.'

Greg nodded understandingly, staying silent to let him keep speaking. 'It seems strange that this should be the only star that leads to somewhere like this. The fact that there are directions,' he recited the co-ordinates he'd memorised and seared into his mind a long time ago, 'second to the left and straight on 'til morning. Did they exist so that you didn't get to the wrong place? Are there alternate versions of Neverland, darker ones, with their own version of Peter?'

'I'm not sure. I've never thought about it.' Greg shrugged slightly, but sounded just as curious as Mycroft felt. 'Perhaps.'

'I want to know.' Mycroft stated. 'But I know I won't. I don't want to venture further into the unknown, in case I can't get back, or I don't like what I come across. Do you think there are people there that come from London, or America, or not even from Earth, staring up at the stars and wondering if we exist?' He felt a shiver run down his back at the thought of other beings that may not even be humanoid staring up at him staring back. 'Perhaps school was wrong.' He mused, hoping desperately for it to be true.


	16. Chapter 16

'It's been too long.' Captain Moriarty stated, pacing back and forth across the deck. Sebastian stared at him worriedly, knowing how unhealthy it was for his boss to be in this state of mind. Not just unhealthy for him, but for everybody else. The death toll on this ship increased, the mortality rate decreased rapidly, so long as Moriarty was pacing.

'Forgive me for my idiocy, _Captain_,' Sebastian started, tone thick with sarcasm owing to the fact that he knew full well he wasn't an idiot, otherwise Jim wouldn't keep his as his first mate, 'but what's been to long?'

'The Lost Boys.' Jim waved his hand distractedly towards the island. The hand had an old pistol attached to the end of it, and as he waved it, the passing crew ducked silently and carried on moving. The best way to evade death in these situations was to act as if they weren't trying to survive, but were in fact just doing their normal duties. 'They've got those two new ones.' He turned on his heel sharply, the sound cutting through the tense silence covering the deck. 'And we still know nothing about them.'

'Do we need to?'

'Yes!' Jim glared at him. 'Of course we do.' Sebastian waited uselessly for an explanation that he knew he wouldn't get. The Boss didn't explain unless he thought it would make you work better or get the job done with more efficiency. It had always been like that and he wasn't expecting it to change.

Sebastian found his thoughts drifting back to how life had been before The Reichenbach. They'd been the most dangerous people in London, in charge of every criminal, the one they all asked before doing a job. If Jim needed something, they did it, and there were no exceptions.

It had been working perfectly, in fact. Nobody in the Government were able to locate them, they moved often enough and their names weren't on any database on the planet. Scotland Yard had tried their very best, on several occasions, to catch them. It was adorable, watching them chase their tails uselessly, sniffing for clues that had deliberately been placed.

He wondered, quite often, what had happened to their criminal underworld once they weren't ruling them any more. King Jim Moriarty and his advisor had just disappeared off the face of the planet, rather literally, and left everything behind. There had been jobs unfinished, e-mails unanswered. What hurt most, in his eyes, was the fact that his beloved equipment was without an owner, without somebody to clean it and care for it. The idea that some idiot without any training was using it, abusing it with their clumsy hands, it was enough to make him want to kill anybody nearby.

Although, to be fair, after so many years here, he was probably a little clumsy himself. Being so out of practice was the worst thing, if your best profession is being a sniper for Jim Moriarty. It could be the different between a good job or being killed. It had never been stated directly, but he was quite sure that if he got a certain amount of failed hits, Jim would make him disappear, just like he had so many criminals that had disappointed him before.

He still wasn't entirely sure how they got here. He'd asked the other men, and they didn't know either. He knew it had happened, of course. And he remembered his life before Neverland a lot better than he gathered the Lost Boys did, going by the book he'd read several times in his life. But it seemed like it had been wiped from their mind. One moment Jim and himself had been in their flat, Jim leaning over a table that had been swept clean of objects now situated on the floor. Jim was pointed at a map he'd spread out, instructing Sebastian of where to go that night, to get the best shot and not be seen by any security cameras.

Sebastian remembered how his shirt had been unbuttoned and was hanging loosely against his frame. His chest was red in some places from stubble burn and Sebastian knew his tie was probably somewhere in the living room. His normally perfectly slicked back hair was in disarray, but he was still talking as if they were both dressed respectably, as if he hadn't just been leaning over that table for entirely different reasons.

And then, suddenly, they'd been sprawled over a ship's deck with no idea how it had happened. His watch had skipped several hours and then just stopped, and Jim remembered nothing other than the map and their flat.

Of course, at the time, Hook had still been the fearsome Captain, and the Reichenbach was still know as The Jolly Roger, and Peter was still in charge of Neverland. But once Jim had realised he was far smarter than Hook, he'd made a good point to show it, staging a mutiny and tying up Hook against the front of the ship, waiting and watching until the crocodile finally found the meal he'd been looking for since the time Peter had thrown the man's hand into the sea, and devouring him. Hook had screamed, so loudly that one of the crew, Starkey, had commented that the Lost Boys had gathered on the beach to see what was happening, only to run back into the undergrowth as if to ignore the incident and forget that it had happened.

Once Hook was gone, well and truly, and the sea around front of the ship had turned a watery crimson, dispersing slowly along with the smell of death and agony that Sebastian and Jim thrived on, Jim had instructed Sebastian to shoot the crocodile.

Sebastian always followed orders, which was part of why Jim hired him so long ago, and he didn't hesitate to do what had been asked, and the crew had helped to tie the crocodile up and tow it back to lay it across the river on Crocodile Creek.

Jim had laughed ecstatically about the irony of that, and stood back as Sebastian cut the stomach, pulling out the head and torso of the crew's old Captain. It was slightly disturbing, he was willing to admit that, but it was also quite interesting.

They'd hung those parts of Hook from Hangman's Tree, as per Jim's instructions, and watched from the trees as the Lost Boys had returned and been so scared Peter told Wendy, John and Michael to go home. The other Lost Boys had admitted they didn't want to stay on Neverland any more, not after this, but Greg, the person closest to Peter, had promised to stay along with Slightly, to look after Neverland for him while he took the others back to London to make sure they arrived safely and without harm.

Jim had been upset that Peter decided to leave too. Sebastian always got the feeling that Jim had something special planned for him, a particular way he wanted Peter to die, to make him know how bitter Jim was that he hadn't been brought to Neverland. Sebastian could tell why, though. Not that he ever said anything, but he was sure Jim would have destroyed Neverland and killed Peter anyway.

'I need to know who they are.' Jim shouted suddenly, making Sebastian stand to attention and pull his mind out of his memories. 'I need to know more about them and about why they haven't come here yet. Surely they like Pirates.'

'I'm sure they do. Not sure they like dying though.' Sebastian reminded him, earning a slightly insane laugh from the Captain.

'Well it happens to everybody. They need to learn.' He paused for a moment, clearly thinking something over, and turned to point at Starkey. He was the only member of the original crew left. The rest had been replaced but Starkey had hated Hook and was entirely loyal to Jim, so he'd been permitted to stay. 'Go catch the boy's favourite Fairy. Dimmock, I believe. They'll come after him, I'm sure.'

Starkey nodded, running below deck to grab a glass jar and jumping into a small boat within two minutes of being given a command. Jim watched him go with a smile upon his lips that Sebastian had come to recognise as expectation for something cruel. It was the best smile Jim had, and one Sebastian relished. 'If they don't want to come to me, I'll just have to lure them to me.' He murmured before turning, whistling merrily as he stalked back to the cabin he and Sebastian shared. At the door he paused again, fixing Sebastian with a look that stated obviously that he was expected to follow.

The Lost Boys woke later than usual, all complaining of headaches and muscles hurting. Mycroft and Greg hadn't bothered to get out of bed, having not heard any movement until the cries of pity drifted towards them and interrupted their thoughts.

'Sounds like they have hangovers.' Mycroft mused. 'Surely I'm mistaken?'

'You are.' Greg kissed his hair, adjusting his grip around his waist. 'The singing and music at the Indian settlement is loud. And the dancing isn't slow, like ours was last night. It's just the remains of a normal night with the Indians.'

'I'm actually starting to feel rather glad that I didn't go with them, if that's what I would have ended up with.' He nuzzled against Greg's chest, kissing over the bruise and trying not to grin at the thought that he put it there.

'No, instead you ended up with something a little bit better.' Greg murmured. 'Do you think we should go pity them all like they want us to?'

'I don't think so.' Settling closer, Mycroft yawned and tried to pull the covers closer. 'I think we should stay here a little longer.' He closed his eyes contentedly.

'If you insist.' Greg relaxed a little more, smiling against his hair, and quietly drew meaningless shapes against Mycroft's waistline absently.

Once all the Lost Boys had dragged themselves out of their beds and dared to brave the sunlight, it was a lot later than they usually got up and about. But then, it was a lot later than they usually slept last night, so Mycroft supposed they had good reason.

'So what do we want to do today, boys?' Greg asked, clapping his hands to wake everybody a little more. The Lost Boys glared up at him, and Sherlock crawled over to Mycroft. Silently, he climbed up into his lap and wrapped the arm not holding John around him, hiding his face against Mycroft's chest. Smiling softly, Mycroft encircled his little brother in his arms and tried to make him as comfortable as possible.

'So not a lot then.' Greg smiled. 'Alright, we can just relax. It's not like we have an actual schedule, anyway.' The boys thanked him quietly and went back to being sprawled over each other and the floor. They'd all been too tired to wash off the face paint or remove the feathers, so their hair was more tangled than usual and the lines were slightly smeared. A small part of Mycroft wanted to make them all go wash it off and brush their hair immediately, but he knew that wasn't the kind of mindset that was encouraged here. Instead he shook Sherlock slightly in an attempt to keep him awake, but Sherlock muttered incoherently and tried to get closer and warmer. He looked up at Greg and smiled slightly, raising his shoulders in a vague shrug.

'You're free to do as you wish today, boys1. If any of you feel like getting up and going somewhere, go for it. Back by dinner if you're hungry enough and so on.' Greg effectively dismissed them, although most of the kids didn't move. It appeared that for all Adric's pride at dancing twice, he was one of the worse looking on the morning after. He didn't complain too much, giving Mycroft the impression that he did it a lot and knew to just take full responsibility for his actions.

The day passed quietly, for once. Sally and Anderson ended up playing cards on the grass, Jake and Adric ended up sprawled in the shade of the sun which was brighter and warmer than it had it been in London, heads close together and laying quite close as they spoke quietly to each other, occasionally laughing about something to themselves. Benjamin stayed close to Sherlock, once he detached himself from Mycroft and his short nap, to play catch with him. The ball they used had a tendency to disappear and they sometimes had to go looking for it, but luckily it never strayed far.

The Twins wandered into the forest to get out of the shade once Zak complained of the sunlight giving him a headache, and they mentioned something about exploring some caves, although Mycroft could have sworn he heard the dark haired boy mention Hangman's Tree with a glint in his eyes that suggested a sense of desire. He realised once they'd left that that was where Peter had set up his base.

Greg and Mycroft stayed nearby to the others, and Mycroft idly complained about not having anything to read until Greg smiled and lead him to a back room of their underground living space, in which there was a small collection of books, brought my previous Lost Boys and a few stolen from the Jolly Roger. Mycroft found no way to express his happiness towards the other boy other than to kiss him soundly and thank him repeatedly by whispering 'thank you' against his lips. Greg had laughed and said if he was so easily pleased perhaps Greg was just trying too hard.

The rest of Mycroft's day was spent happily reading books about navigation, Norse mythology stories and any other books he could find. Greg was starting to forget how to read properly, only remembering a few words, and tried to read over his shoulder uselessly.

'So what's that one?'

'Fortunately.'

'Ah, right. Thanks.' Greg smiled shyly. After a beat, Mycroft started reading aloud, quiet enough that only Greg could hear. They curled up against the bark of a tree, Mycroft following the words he was reading with his finger as he spoke slowly, trying to ease Greg back into reading. A few times, Mycroft could see Greg trying to follow along with him silently, stumbling over words and pausing angrily as he tried to relax, to not be angry at himself for getting it wrong. When that happened, Mycroft slowed his pace a little more, going slower over the longer words and breaking them into parts as he spoke. Neither of them commented on it, since Mycroft didn't want Greg to feel patronised and figured Greg was too proud to mention it.

As the evening drew to a close, Mycroft felt more relaxed than he had for a long time, and a little satisfied that he'd helped Greg rediscover his ability to read. For the first time in a while, he felt like he'd done something worthwhile.

The bright sun was starting to set, leaving the glitter covered sky to slowly draw itself across the sky as if being draped over Neverland, and Greg noticed the Lost Boys starting to gather wood for the fire again. Their energy seemed to be returning, and their careless technique of throwing wood in the general direction of the fire was bordering on hazardous and life threatening as they kept narrowly avoiding each other. It was only the sheer amount of spatial awareness and good reflexes kept them from each being hit by airborne branches.

Mycroft got up to stop them a few times when there were some particularly close calls, but Greg held him back, pointing out that he was more likely to get hit, and so was everyone else if they tried to stop moving and listen to him. 'Besides,' he continued, 'they do this a lot. It's a bit like a synchronised dance.'

They became so interested in watching them throw the wood towards the pile, passing them towards each other, that nobody noticed the sound of crashing through the trees until the Twins fell into the clearing, yelling over each other and trying to stand, only to trip over each other again.

Greg instantly slipped into his commanding mode, untangling himself from being curled up with Mycroft to stand and step forward, yelling for a moment to force everybody into silence. Any Lost Boys in the air landed instantly and the others stopped moving immediately, turning to their leader.

'Everybody, calm down for a moment. Twins, what's happened? You look shaken.' He helped them up. 'Sit down, relax, then start explaining, slowly.'

After a few moments, Zak took a deep breath. 'We walked down to the bay. We were playing Pirates, just looking at the ship and thinking about Hook…' He trailed off, looking at the floor and visibly trying to calm his thoughts.

'And we heard something nearby, it was too strange to be another Lost Boy, not cautious enough, so we hid. It was Moran.' Alex continued. 'He had a jar, and was sort of talking to it.' He bit his lip, looking at Zak again.

'We used my spyglass,' Zak gestured to the brass spyglass he'd taken from Hook years ago attached to his belt, 'and realised what was happening.' He took another breath. 'Dimmock. Dimmock's been taken by Hook.'

The Lost Boys became hushed, shock crossing their faces as they tried to process the information. Greg shook his head, frowning. 'They took Dimmock? Why? Did you hear anything Moran was saying?'

'Only that he'd make the Captain cheer up a bit.' Alex shrugged with one shoulder. 'What do we do, Greg?'

'I don't know.' Greg ran a hand through his hair, turning to look at Mycroft with an expression of complete loss on his face. 'I really don't know how we're going to get him back. Moriarty isn't safe. He's far too risky to even know near. And it sounds painfully like a trap. I don't think we can all go.'

'I'll go.' Adric stated, raising a hand calmly. 'I'm not afraid of Jim. And if it saves Dimmock, I'll do it. The guy doesn't deserve to get stuck with him.'

'I don't know if that's entirely safe.' Greg raised an eyebrow at him. 'You have a tendency to overreact, and be quite tempted to make yourself known, to get noticed. We're going to need stealth.'

They spoke back and forth for a few minutes, trying to bat ideas around. Sherlock silently crossed over and curled up beside Mycroft again, fitting against his side and clutching John between them as he settled and watched the other boys talking about different techniques and methods. The various ways each had to retrieve Dimmock were sometimes ludicrous but occasionally brilliant.

Mycroft absently played with Sherlock's hair soothingly, remembering that it calmed him down after the arguments he'd had about John being taken away, and wrapped his arms a little more securely around him. Perhaps Neverland was the best place for Sherlock, as the boy had said right at the start. Nobody could take his best friend away from him here, and that's what they were both so worried about, he knew.

There wasn't much left for Mycroft in London, but he knew that he would eventually wish to return. Sherlock, however. That was incredibly different. Sherlock had even less waiting for him, and nothing to drag him back there. When he said he didn't intend to return, Mycroft felt he was being entirely serious, and couldn't find a reason to blame him. He wished he could feel completely at home in Neverland, but it was more like being on holiday. He'd spent years imagining that it would be like coming home after a very long day, finally able to be who he wanted to be and not having to worry about what others might think. But if anything it was the opposite. He was constantly trying to make himself a little less grown up, trying to forget how to be an adult, and it was just so difficult sometimes.


	17. Chapter 17

Greg argued back and forth with the Lost Boys for another hour or so until they couldn't think of what to do and all the plans were mixing together as one thing. 'Look, boys.' He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mycroft worriedly noticed a line between his eyebrows that Greg had always kissed away whenever it had happened to himself. He fought the urge to stand up, to walk over and kiss Greg to take the stress away, but settled for tugging Sherlock slightly closer and kissing his hair absently. 'We can't do this tonight, it's too dark and we haven't got a stable plan. We're all a little disorientated from last night's partying and we haven't got long enough to put something together and do it. Let's sleep on it, think it over in the morning.' The other boys started talking over each other again about how it might be too late, but Greg raised a hand sharply, silencing them again.

From where Mycroft was sat, the sun had begun to set over the trees, leaving Greg in a glowing silhouette, lighting up his hair as if from inside each individual strand. It looked like the cover to the book he had at home, Mycroft mused inwardly.

'Tomorrow won't be too late, because if it is a trap, Moriarty is going to want to keep the bait alive.' He shook his head sadly. 'Now come on, we've clearly got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, we need to save Dimmock.'

Everyone got up, still whispering amongst each other as they abandoned the cards, ball and Mycroft set the book down on the floor beside them, leaving a blade of grass in as a page marker. He'd not seen Greg so stressed like this before, so willing to lead his team.

He followed him into their room, wrapping his arms around Greg's waist carefully and pressing closer in an attempt to alleviate some of the heightened emotion. 'You did well, Greg.' He breathed, kissing his neck carefully. Turning him in his arms, Mycroft gently kissed between his eyes, smoothing out the crease between his lips. 'You need to calm down a bit.'

Greg shook his head again, leaning back against him and closing his eyes slowly. 'I don't think I can help Dimmock, Myc.' He murmured. 'I don't know how we're going to get him back.'

Mycroft frowned, looking at him curiously. 'What's so terrible about this new Captain?' Greg bit his lip, looking around the room as if trying to work out what to say.

'Hook was innocent in comparison to him.' Greg frowned. 'It's horrible. He replaced Hook, killed him.' He explained quietly what had happened, what they'd all seen and how it had driven Peter out of Neverland. As he spoke, his voice got thicker and more emotional to the point of him pressing himself closer to Mycroft, holding onto his shirt and trying to pull back tears. Mycroft rubbed his back soothingly, kissing his temple and trying to soothe him.

'I've not talked to anyone about it.' Greg explained, sniffling quietly. 'Only Slightly stayed behind with me, but he left a little while after I took on some new Lost Boys. Neither of us ever discussed it, not once we'd cut Hook down and burned him. None of the boys here really know what happened to him. They just know he isn't here any more.'

Mycroft nodded, pulling Greg a little closer. 'I'm so sorry all that happened, Gregory.' He whispered. Greg laughed, pulling away enough to look at him and frown. 'Did I say something wrong?'

'Gregory.' Greg laughed, pulling a strange face. 'Nobody calls me that. That's so… posh.' Mycroft raised an eyebrow, knowing he didn't need to point out that he wasn't exactly middle class himself. Greg's eyes opened widely and he shook his head quickly. 'Not that it's a bad thing. I mean, I'm not exactly… I mean…' He laughed and pressed close against Mycroft again. 'I'm sorry, Myc. You know what I mean.'

'I do, completely. It just seems to suit you.' Mycroft shrugged absently and carefully held him at arms length, kissing him softly as he gently pulled the material of Greg's faded The Clash shirt up over his head, breaking the kiss only when the shirt forced him too. Greg smiled his thanks, stepping forward to kiss him again, hands shakily starting to pull the buttons away from the slits they fitted in to.

Mycroft considered telling him he didn't need to, that he was going to look after Greg, but he could tell, without even needing to ask or bring it up vocally, that Greg needed _something_ to be in control of for a moment, something he knew how to handle. He let Greg lead the kiss and the movements, not trying to take over or do anything of his own.

His own mind was reeling with the information Greg had just given him, with the knowledge that here, in Neverland, such things could happen. It was like a horror story, and that wasn't something he'd ever connect with this mystical land he'd wanted to visit since he was old enough to read. And he'd started rather young.

Greg pushed him gently against the wall, dragging his shirt down his shoulders and throwing the now inside-out shirt across the room once more. Mycroft smiled to himself, liking the small ritual they had of never folding their clothes. He knew he had, at first, but it was as distant a memory as London, now. It seemed laughable that he should fold clothes he was going to wear and crease anyway.

Hands deftly unbuttoned his trousers with a sense of newly acquired skill and expertise, and Mycroft closed his eyes against the kiss, sighing contentedly. The faint memory of being worried about being overheard was quickly fading, too. He knew that in these moments, he wasn't required to worry or concentrate on that sort of thing. In fact, he hardly needed to worry at all, about anything. They'd find a way to retrieve Dimmock, because he trusted Greg completely with everything he had. He'd help the other boy to get over the Hook incident that had happened so long ago and yet barely any time at all had passed for him, judging by the look in his eyes.

The zip was slowly pulled down, creating a light, tantalising friction over him. Biting his lip, Mycroft broke the kiss, letting his head rest back against the wall so he could attempt to keep his breathing level. It was far too early into the events for him to think about hyperventilating or falling short of breathe. Greg laughed on a breath that ghosted across Mycroft's skin lightly as he instead began placing hot kisses along his neck and chest. He pulled the bruise he'd created two days ago back into his mouth, refreshing it. The gasp of pain was overweighed nearly instantly by the moan of pleasure, of knowing a part of him was inside Greg's mouth, something he hadn't realised he needed so badly until he's first come across it just days ago.

Mycroft kicked his shoes off just before Greg pushed the trousers down and he stepped out of them. Mycroft allowed himself to be guided 180 degrees, pushed towards the bed and onto it as Greg climbed out of his jeans and joined him. He curled up opposite him, tangling their legs together and pressing himself completely against Mycroft until their chests were touching. Their lips connected again, and Mycroft detected an urgency he'd not felt in their kisses before, a strong sense of need in the small whines Greg allowed to escape his lips.

They kissed for a while longer, until Greg pulled back and rested their foreheads together. 'Thank you Mycroft.' He breathed, smiling tiredly into the darkness. Mycroft responded by silently kissing his forehead, choosing not to ask exactly what he was being thanked for and instead trying to repeat the gesture back to him.

Within minutes, both were asleep, knowing they were going to be busy tomorrow and barely able to keep their eyes open after a lazy day unlike anything they'd had for a while.

Sherlock turned to face the wall beside his bed again, unable to decide if he wanted to face it, or look out into the room. All the other Lost Boys had fallen asleep ages ago, he could tell from the fact that there was no irregular breathing other than his own, and nobody moving constantly.

Pulling John closer to his chest, he turned again, holding the bear around it's waist, like a shield to the world. He couldn't stop thinking about Dimmock, about how nobody seemed to know what to do about it. He'd seen how lost Greg looked, when he'd looked back at Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't an idiot, even if he was the youngest here. He could see the two of them had become closer, but was relieved rather than shocked and disgusted. Mycroft had been looking sad for a long time back in London, but he seemed happier around Greg, and that made Greg a good person, he was sure. Of course, they'd have to go back to London _eventually_, but he hoped that whenever Mycroft went back, Greg went with him. They shared something, he could see that.

His eyes were starting to hurt, and Sherlock mused in the darkness that it wasn't a good thing. Tiredness was kicking in, he could tell. Smiling, Sherlock wondered if he'd end up looking like Mycroft used to, most nights. He'd heard that his brother had sometimes stayed up all night, or at least into the early hours that Sherlock had never encountered but intended to one day become closely acquainted with.

When he did that, he ended up with dark shadows under his eyes that didn't leave even when he was standing and directly facing the sunlight. He'd heard it referred to as insomnia, but wasn't sure if that was the name of the shadows or the term used for somebody when they'd stayed up past their bed time.

Sighing, he turned onto his back and stared up at the panel of the bed above him, where he knew Benjamin to be fast asleep. He felt a pang of jealousy that he could sleep so easily, but pushed it back.

Greg had said that to get Dimmock back, they needed to be stealthy and quiet. After a moment of thought, he realised that he could be capable of that, perhaps. He was quiet, smaller than the others, and could blend into the darkness. There were clouds covering the sky and the bright moon, and even if it cleared everything could be black and white, and he could hide in the shadows.

Once he had an idea in his head, it was difficult to stay still, to sleep when he knew he could be saving his friend.

Quietly, trying not to attract too much attention despite knowing every Lost Boy was far into the land of sleep, Sherlock slipped out of bed, pausing as he wondered if John could come with him. John was braver than any bear he'd met, so he smiled, holding onto his paw as he padded silently out of the room.


	18. Chapter 18

'Greg, Greg!' Benjamin fell into the room, shouting loudly to wake them both. Greg sat up suddenly, hair mussed from sleep and the activities of the night before, frowning worriedly.

'What? What the hell?' He scowled at Benjamin, trying to wake up properly. Mycroft sat up a few moments later, looking over at Benjamin curiously. 'What's wrong, Benjamin?'

'It's Sherlock. He's not in bed, and the bed is cold.' Benjamin stated, worry coating his voice. 'John's missing too. I didn't hear him leave at any point, I have no idea where he is.'

Mycroft felt panic grip his chest and hold on tight, preventing him from breathing properly. The story Greg had told him the night before ran through his mind again, the knowledge that Moriarty was insane enough to hang up parts of a corpse after removing them from the body of a crocodile. What if he'd snuck in and told Sherlock for some reason, to learn about him, perhaps?

'Mycroft? Mycroft, are you alright?' Greg's hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality, and he blinked a few times, looking around and noticing that Benjamin was staring at him worriedly. 'We're going to find Sherlock and bring him back alright, I promise.'

'You shouldn't make promises like that.' Mycroft breathed, getting tangled in the cover as he tried to get out of bed, towards his trousers. 'We need to start looking, start planning something, _now_.' He told Greg, hardly even thinking any more.

'Of course. I'll go wake the others properly.' Benjamin nodded once and ran out of the room again as Greg pulled his shirt on, striding over to Mycroft and batting his hands aside as he buttoned up his shirt wrong, re-doing it easily.

'It's going to be okay, Myc.' Greg told him, kissing him in an attempt to soothe him. 'I'll do everything I can, and you know the others will, too.'

'I know. It's just… I was always supposed to protect him.' Mycroft looked up, catching Greg's dark eyes with his own. 'I'm not sure I can do that if I don't know where he is, or if he's on the ship.'

'If he is, Moriarty won't hurt him, I'm sure of it. He'll keep him alive, like Dimmock, so that we have a reason to go over there. He has no reason to hate Sherlock yet.'

Mycroft nodded shakily, and Greg let his hand drift to his, linking their fingers and locking their hands together as he lead him through to the other room, to tell the Lost Boys about their plan.

Jim woke sharply to the sound of creaking on his deck. Usually, it wouldn't be anything new, but there was something a little different about this one, he knew it. There was a distant sound of footsteps, hidden by the waves lazily lapping against the hull of his ship, but small, hesitant steps were definitely there, he was sure of it.

He thought of waking Sebastian, who always slept beside him, but decided against it. Sebastian always wanted him to take a careful option first, in case he got in trouble or hurt, but what pain could a little kid cause, seriously. If he was alone, as the lack of other steps implied, then what honest difficulties could he have with the child?

Jim pulled back the heavy covers and stood slowly, adjusting to the slight sway of the floor beneath him for a moment. Sebastian had slept beside him as long as he remembered, if only because Jim was unable to sleep alone and it wasn't as risky as stealing a new person each night and drugging them so he could sleep beside them. He'd tried it, for a little while, but the death rate was too high, he didn't want to be noticed. Sometimes he gave them too much of whatever drug he chose that night, and they weren't able to wake again. He could keep them cool, and use them the next night, but after a while it became unsanitary and just plain sickening. Nobody uses a corpse to sleep beside three nights in a row.

Sherlock tried not to step anywhere, hovering over the floor as much as possible, but being so close to the floor made it so very difficult. He didn't want to risk going higher because it would be more troublesome to hide if he were located a few feet into the air. There were no shadows up there, after all.

Sadly, it seemed every step he was forced to take was on a creaky floorboard, and there didn't seem to be any way around it. The entire ship creaked around him loudly, making him feel like it was alive, trying to wake it's Captain and alert him to the fact that there was an intruder upon his ship.

John held tightly onto his hand, keeping him company as he tried to ignore the knowledge that whoever was on this ship right now was responsible for killing Hook. He had no idea how that had happened, and it seemed nobody did, but he didn't want to know. He held the fur tighter, wondering what had possessed him to think that this was a good idea. If he were caught and killed, nobody knew where he was. It could be hours until anybody woke, and even then they might assume he was just washing, or going for a walk somewhere. Maybe it would even be days until anybody tried to come and save him.

If Dimmock had been bait for them, did that make him bait, now? Or would he simply be killed because the pirates already had leverage and he was in the way. Perhaps they'd kill Dimmock because they had an even better form of bait, one they could hang from the rigging for all of the Lost Boys to see from the beach.

The door to the cabin swung open, and Sherlock dove behind the mast, pressing his back up against it and thanking the gods he'd heard Mycroft talking about yesterday (today?) that the floor he let his feet hesitantly rest on wasn't creaking. The wood was rough against his back, and he cuddled John close against himself, closing his eyes tightly and hoping it was just the wind, or that the Captain wouldn't feel the need to come down onto the deck tonight. After all, why should he?

Sherlock hoped desperately that the footsteps had just blended into the sound of the ship all around him. It didn't sound that loud to him, after all, and he was the one making them. But what if the Captain had some sort of sonic hearing like the characters in those silly science fiction books people at school read?

What if he was a Vulcan from Star Trek and had powerful hearing.

'Boy, I know you're here.' A voice drifted through the night, and the soft Irish lilt had Sherlock closing his eyes tighter still and trying not to shake with fear. He had to figure a way out of here, a way to get Dimmock and just leave again.

Hadn't Peter beaten Hook by flying? Hook couldn't fly, because he was a grown up, so the Captain couldn't, either.

'What's your name, anyway? I take it you're one of the two new ones. None of the others would dare come here alone, they're not stupid enough to even consider it. You must not have been warned.' His voice, the man Sherlock couldn't see, took on a musing tone. 'They didn't tell you what I did, did they?'

Sherlock bit back the remark in his head that stated he wasn't stupid, not at all. He was smarter than most people he knew, apart from Mycroft. Mycroft was smarter than anybody he knew, even himself, as much as it frustrated him.

But he found himself more curious about what they didn't tell him. Was there a fact that all the Lost Boys knew, and he didn't? He scowled at the deck stretched out in front of him, looking like an old photograph in the monotone moonlight, wondering if they all knew how Hook had died and just didn't tell him because he wasn't old enough. He could handle whatever they were trying to hide from him, he was sure.

'They probably didn't think you could handle it.' The man continued, and Sherlock heard his boots start to come down the stairs. He held his breath, trying to detect which side he'd be coming from so that he could sneak around the opposite side of the mast, any maybe not be seen by him. It was strange, he thought, how the man seemed to know what he was thinking. Almost as if he was as clever as Sherlock was.

'Why don't you come out of your hiding place, boy, and I'll tell you. I'll tell you what the others didn't think you should know, because I bet you could know. You'd understand it better than any of them.' Sherlock heard the kindness, but also heard the undertone of anger and pure evil that he was trying to retain in his voice. The steadiness of his steps suggested he was stalking closer, eyes constantly scanning for any kind of movement. He wanted to fly up the mast, peek around from higher up because the Captain wouldn't be looking up there, but he wasn't sure he was that steady in the air to avoid wavering into sight.

'You can even know things the others don't.' Captain Moriarty promised, voice lowering and becoming a purr Sherlock didn't feel comfortable with. He wanted to know, yes, he definitely did, but he didn't want to trust Moriarty. He didn't sound like a nice person, he stole Dimmock, and he killed Hook.

But, he was also the most interesting person Sherlock had ever met, or half met in this case, if he wasn't to include Mycroft. The temptation to step out and introduce himself was overpowering.

Moriarty smiled as he saw the shadow of a small boy clutching a teddy bear to his chest, hiding behind the mast. He should have learnt the trick of losing your shadow.

He'd noticed a few times how he'd twitched, as if to step out, and stopped himself. 'You can step out, you know, let me see you.'

A small, scared voice called back to him, hints of suspicion and hope hidden in his tone. 'What, so you can kill me?'

'I'm not going to kill you, don't be obvious.' Yet. He smiled to himself, hands itching to pick his gun from the holster and to just step around the corner, draw the trigger, and find out more about this curious little Lost Boy without being wary of his eyes being scratched out.

His smile widened as the boy stepped out from behind the mast, holding a sandy coloured bear that looked nearly as old as the boy, and well loved. 'There you are.' His grin broadened.


	19. Chapter 19

'Why did you come here alone?' Jim asked, frowning slightly at the boy in the moonlight. His hair was unruly, curled and sticking up in all directions, and smudges of makeup alerted him to the fact that they'd been with the Indians, which probably explained why nobody noticed Dimmock was missing until now, despite him being taken before the nightly celebrations two nights previous.

The feathers in his hair were sticking out at strange angles, and his bright eyes stared at his sharply despite the fear, incredibly untrusting and wary for a boy of his age.

'Because nobody else wanted to.' The boy lifted his chin bravely, staring up at him with an air of defiance. 'And I was tired of hearing them all talking about what to do without doing anything.'

Jim nodded thoughtfully. This boy was really quite different from the others, less of a pain, and far more determined. Jim would think him an equal if not for the fact that he was about ten years old, whereas Jim really wasn't any more.

'What's your name?' He was tempted to crouch down, lower his voice to talk to the boy, but could tell somehow that he'd probably just feel insulted, and Jim wasn't about to lower himself to that anyway, figuratively _or_ literally.

'Sherlock. And this is John.' He lifted the bear up just slightly, and Jim would have cooed were he a lesser man. It was a sign of his insanity that Jim expected the bear to wave at him, or speak for itself.

'I'm Captain Moriarty.' Jim told the boy, figuring that he should announce his name to the air between them, although he had the feeling they both already knew that. Difficult to mistake him for one of the crew when his suit was as sharp as ever – somehow – and his hair was covered by a tri-hat. 'So you honestly think you can just come here and retrieve your fairy?' Sherlock nodded. 'I'm sorry, but I don't think that's going to work.' Jim stated in a monotone, feeling pleased at the fear in Sherlock's eyes.

'So who's going to the ship?' Greg asked, sighing when everybody raised their hands and offered themselves. 'You can't all go, you know.'

'Maybe it's best if we do.' Benjamin spoke up, standing opposite Greg. 'If Sherlock's there, we've lost the element of surprise, so why bother trying to go stealthily? You could just get more people taken by him and held prisoner until more people are sent, and so on.' He looked around at them all. 'If we all go, we stand a better chance of everybody getting out of there. I'm not just sitting here and waiting for you to return, and I doubt anybody else is. You teach us that staying together is everything, what use is that saying if you're not going to let us save one of our own?'

'He's right, you know.' Mycroft bit his lip, looking up at Greg from where he was sat on Sherlock's bed. 'For once, more is definitely more, and not less. If only a few of us come along, the others are left just as vulnerable. We can't let that happen, we need to get Sherlock and Dimmock.' He closed his eyes, trying to think logically, but it was becoming so difficult when Sherlock's life was potentially on the line.

'Alright. Fine.' Greg rested his hands on his hips and looked at the Lost Boys sat around him. His expression was grim, lacking the humour and kindness it usually did. When one of his Lost Boys were threatened, it was clear Greg wasn't in the mood for joking or anything that wasn't getting him back. 'Well, we'll eat quickly, to get our strength up, and then everybody is getting ready, arming themselves, and we'll leave.'

The boys nodded, standing and quickly heading towards the table, leaving Mycroft sat on Sherlock's bed, looking down at his clasped hands silently. Greg sat beside him, looping an arm around his shoulders and kissing his temple, wanting to ask what was wrong but knowing the subject before he voiced it. He just wasn't sure exactly what the concern was at this moment.

'I don't know how to work with weapons or self defence.' Mycroft muttered, letting his head sink a little more towards his chest. Greg cupped his chin, lifting it to look into Mycroft's reluctant eyes.

'I'll help you, don't worry. I'll find you something that doesn't require much practice. If we're lucky, you won't even need to use it. The others will keep people at bay, I'm sure. Me and you will get to Sherlock, if we need to track him down. Do you know if Sherlock can defend himself?'

'He has had fencing lessons. It was father's idea since about half a year ago. It's a sport at the school Sherlock's being sent to and father wanted him to know the ropes before he started with the class. But I doubt he's managed to pick up a rapier on his way to the ship.' Mycroft shrugged slightly, worrying at his lip again. They were going to rescue his little brother from a pirate ship. The brother he'd always promised to protect was now in the hands of the most dangerous and terrifying man he could think of. And he was alone, except for John. It was a small comfort, in a way, to know Sherlock had taken him along. At least he wasn't completely alone, if he had the most consistent friend any boy could ask for at his side. So long as Moriarty didn't take him from Sherlock.

'Then we'll just have to take one for him. I think we have one lying around somewhere.' Greg smiled comfortingly and kissed him, soothing him before pulling away and speaking softly against his lips. 'We should probably go have breakfast.'

'I'm not hungry.' Mycroft told him, pressing his lips together as if Greg was trying to give him food in that very moment.

'Mycroft Holmes, you're going to eat, and then we're going to get your brother from a Pirate Ship.' Greg ordered him, taking his hand in the fashion they were both so very used to and pulling him to his feet, out into the clearing, and towards the table.


	20. Chapter 20

Jim had managed to coax the boy into his cabin, throwing a book in Sebastian's direction. Sebastian sat up angrily, throwing the book back without looking before trying to understand what was happening.

'Be nice, Sebby. We have a guest.' He chided. Sebastian stared with shock he didn't bother to try to conceal at the small child clutching a bear around the waist, and looked back at Jim incredulously. Surely Jim wasn't being serious? No, he was.

'You said we weren't stealing any of the Lost Boys away.' He stated, climbing out of bed and pulling his jacket on. It had become habit to sleep in the clothes he was wearing that day, to make it easier if they suddenly needed to be alert and move fast. Jim had scorned him at first, saying it was wrong, but eventually seen the practicality and now did the same himself.

'Oh, I didn't steal him. He came to the ship on his own.' Jim smiled reassuringly at him and looked down at the Lost Boy. 'Little Sherlock here is here to save his friend the fairy alone since nobody else knows what to do.' Sebastian nodded cautiously in understanding and tried not to feel too unsettled by the light that was in Jim's eyes. A light he hadn't seen since Hook. He wasn't a kind man, by any means, but even Sebastian knew that it was a little wrong to look at an innocent little boy as if you're about to murder him horribly.

'So where is he?' Sherlock asked angrily, staring between them and letting his eyes drift around the room carefully. Dimmock wouldn't just be left out on the deck, and the Captain didn't look the type to rely on trust if he could avoid it, but it looked like he shared a bed with the Sebastian man.

He wondered if they had an arrangement like Greg and Mycroft did, if it was for an emotional attachment reason or just to make life easier. Neither of them looked particularly fond of one another, but then mummy and father didn't always show that they loved each other event though it was constant.

Dimmock had to be in this room somewhere, he was sure of it. But there was no way to actually search for it if both men were staying at him so sharply. He tried to listen for something, anything to suggest there was a fairy in the room, but they were both talking and he couldn't find the concentration.

'So why don't you stay for a drink, Sherlock? You may be here for a while as it is, and I don't like my guests to be uncomfortable.' Moriarty smiled at him in a way that Sherlock felt increasingly uncomfortable with, and Sherlock shook his head.

'He's a child, Jim. He can't drink what we have on this ship.' Sebastian pointed out, rolling his eyes at Jim's occasional arrogance. 'Why don't you just let him go?'

'Because I have a reputation, Sebby.' Moriarty answered easily. 'What kind of a Captain would I be if I allowed prisoners to leave the ship after I've brought them into the cabin?' He turned to Sherlock. 'Now, why don't you sit down, then? If nothing else, make yourself at home. Would you like to know what the other Lost Boys don't tell you?'

Sherlock wanted to shake his head, to say he didn't care about that any more and wished to return to land, but of course he _did_ want to know what had happened. He couldn't really trust the others to tell him everything, if he were to go back to the island and ask. The only choice, it seemed, was to indulge in his curiosity.

Reluctantly, he sat on one of the red velvet chairs, feeling smaller than ever as he seemed to sink into it and the high back seemed higher than usual. Jim sat opposite him, fitting his own chair perfectly, looking like a king in his castle before a peasant.

'I'm going to tell you what happened to Hook, Sherlock.' Moriarty looked at him with a childish glee that looked distorted and disturbing in the light of the cabin, and yet Sherlock was even more intrigued, curling his feet up on the chair and hugging John closer to him as he gave Moriarty all his attention and forgot that he was supposed to be on constant alert, that Moriarty was so very dangerous.

'Alright, so.' Greg clapped his hands, looking at the Lost Boys and making them pause in their actions. Alex stopped checking his crossbow, Zak lowered his dagger slowly and the others put their bows and arrows down. 'We're going to have to be careful, as you know.' They all nodded. 'Mycroft and I are going to get Sherlock, if he isn't in clear sight instantly. It's been a long time since we've gone to the ship for any reason that we couldn't help and avoid first. But we can't stay there any longer than we need to.'

'You never let us on there, but you've never really explained why, either.' Adric told him. 'Is that because you're protecting us, or is there something else?'

Greg sighed, glancing at Mycroft momentarily. Both of them knew it was probably best the Lost Boys didn't know the true extent of what Moriarty was capable of, if only because it may make them behave rashly, and Greg didn't want anybody to die. Neverland isn't a place that death regularly visits, and he intended to keep it that way.

'I haven't told you because Neverland is a better place if people do not know. You only need to understand that Moriarty is dangerous, and will kill you if he feels that way inclined.' The Lost Boys exchanged fearful glances but stayed otherwise silent. 'So we're not going to try to irritate him, if only for our own safety.'

They all nodded again. 'Good. We're not going to bother trying to go in stealthily, since he knows we're on our way already, so we may as well be casual. If we're lucky, he's mostly just curious about Mycroft and Sherlock, so he won't shoot us down.'

Mycroft frowned. 'You mean that's a clear problem? I thought that was just because we arrived.' The idea of his brother being there alone was even more alarming the more he heard about the man. If he'd hurt Sherlock in any way, Mycroft wasn't going to be held responsible for what became of the Captain.

'No, he's just generally rather canon happy.' Greg shrugged with one shoulder, smiling the smile Mycroft trusted so well. 'Don't worry too much about it, Mycroft. We're going to get them both back safe. Sherlock isn't an idiot; he'll be able to look after himself.'

Mycroft nodded, and they all stood, checking their weapons one last time. Greg pulled Mycroft to his side and led the group in the direction of The Reichenbach.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how he was expected to react, or even how he wanted to. The man in front of him was a genuine, actual, real life cold-hearted murderer. He'd never come across one of those before. He found himself thrilled at the prospect. That he was in the company of somebody so cold and inhuman, so far removed from anything he'd ever faced before was a fantastic thought.

The Captain's eyes were bright and full of something Sherlock couldn't identify but found himself wanting to study. He wondered if it was possible to do that sort of thing as a profession. Mycroft had already begun teaching him methods of deduction, to tell what somebody had been doing by the signs on their clothes and expressions. He might be able to make a job out of it, whenever he got around to leaving Neverland.

'So what will you do with me now?' He asked, not shifting from his comfortable position curled up in a madman's chair and still scanning the room for his friend.

'I'm not sure.' Moriarty's head oscillated slowly from side to side as he thought through his actions. 'I don't want to kill you, not right now. But I don't trust you to just walk around of your own accord. Not when you can fly, after all.' He paused, frowning. 'Actually, you could still be left on the deck. Bastian, fetch a chain, would you?'

Dawn was creeping over the horizon as Moriarty led out Sherlock to the deck again. A chain was wrapped around his ankle, and the other end connected to one of the handles to the canons. Sherlock knew without trying that he couldn't move that mass of metal. Even if he could, there was nothing he could do about it; flying was difficult enough with a chain, let alone a loaded canon on the end of it.

A beautiful frost covered the deck, and Sherlock would have been admiring it had he not been so cold himself. His shirt wasn't warm enough, and Moriarty hadn't given him a cover. Apologising through clenched teeth to John, Sherlock put him on the wood and attempted to rest his head on John's stomach. While that worked, the rest of him was being soaked by the thawing ice and he feared he'd freeze to death. It wasn't like death didn't happen on Neverland, as he now knew. Or it only happened on this ship. Either was he was still in danger. It had been ridiculous, thinking he could come and save Dimmock. He'd hoped to rescue the little fairy and return to bed without any of them noticing. They'd notice soon, though, surely. When they woke up. Sherlock clung to that thought desperately, trying to stop it slipping through his fingers like a dream. Mycroft wouldn't let him just be left here, and he was fairly confident that the other Lost Boys weren't the type to let little boys, one of their own, be left at the hands of a man like Moriarty. The cold exhaustion beat him in the end, and Sherlock's vision faded around the edges as he fell unconscious and vulnerable.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock was woken by organised chaos on the deck. Pirates were running around him, jumping over him as he lay, curled up on the floor like a dog in clothes that were soaked and freezing by the ice and frost from the early morning. He chose to pretend he wasn't awake yet, so he might not be moved and nobody would have to watch what they said around him.

Sharp, precise footfalls by his head alerted him to Captain Moriarty, without needing to open his eyes. 'They're on the beach, men. Stay ready and alert, no movement until I give you the signal.' He turned slightly, and Sherlock could imagine his dead eyes showing sickening excitement. 'Sebastian, move that winged _thing_. I want it locked into my cabin, so I know exactly where it is.'

'Yes, Captain.' A set of steps moved away, and Moriarty walked over to Sherlock, calmly running a hand through his hair. Sherlock did his best to stay relaxed, wondering what the hell was going on until the hand tightened it's grip, pulling his hair sharply. Sherlock cried out, uncurling and trying to get away from Moriarty, away from his hand.

'No need to panic, Sherlock.' Moriarty smiled emptily. 'Your help is on it's way.' Sherlock tried to feel comforted, but instead he just felt his stomach drop.

The Lost Boys hesitantly landed on the deck, standing at the corner, surveying everything warily. They knew not to speak, but to be fully alert for any sign of moment. And yet there was no movement at all.

Mycroft tensed, nudging Greg and nodding slightly towards the other side of the deck and a curled up figure by the canon. Greg caught his eye, and Mycroft knew he was trying to convey that it was a trap. He shook his head once, because he knew it very well could be a trap, even if it was actually Sherlock, but he didn't care. He wanted to protect his brother and was going to do whatever was needed to achieve it.

Hovering above the floor, Mycroft drifted towards the figure, relieved to see it was at least breathing. Landing with barely a sound, Mycroft crouched, noticing John in the tangle of Sherlock's arms. He placed his hand against his brother's face and frowned worriedly at how cold he was. Shivering, even. Had he been kept out here all night?

'Sherlock?' He shook the closest shoulder, repeating it when he didn't answer. 'Sherlock, open your eyes for me.' He tried to sound authoritative, like father did when he wanted to be listened to, but fear laced his words instead. Sherlock's eyes flickered, but he didn't respond completely. He had to be too cold. Mycroft looked back at the rest of the crew, and frowned.

Pirates surrounded the Lost Boys, seeming appearing out of nowhere while they'd all been distracted by Sherlock's prone form. They'd been just as silent as Greg had requested the boys be, and it seemed they'd been beaten at their very own game. Mycroft knew he should stand up, step back so that he could show he wasn't about to do any damage, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side, not when he could be in danger.

'Is he alright?' Greg asked, stepping closer to the two brothers instead of back to his crew. They'd already arranged that Mycroft and Sherlock would stay with Greg, but the others could have each other's backs and keep everybody else safe.

'He's shaking, freezing, and not responding.' Mycroft replied worriedly, feeling his own hand becoming colder as he pressed it against Sherlock's forehead. 'His clothes are soaked, too. We need to get him warm; he could have hypothermia.'

The pirates were laughing as they both looked for something to use before Mycroft started unbuttoning his shirt, intending to remove Sherlock's pyjama shirt and give him Mycroft's dry cotton one, but footsteps on the stairs halted him, causing him to look up.

'So you're the other one?' Softly Irish accented vowels crashed over him, and Mycroft took in the slightly creased, tailored suit, tie that was loose, hair that was slicked back but a little curling from the sea air. 'I saw you arrive but you didn't stay still love enough for me to get a proper look at you.' His head tilted to the side, and Mycroft stared back defiantly as the man studied him. Mycroft was being trained, back in London, to not be intimidated, so this wasn't about to work with him.

'My brother needs medical assistance, Captain.' He stated, knowing there was no careful way around it. 'Let me help him, and then I'll do whatever you want.' He ignored the shouts from the Lost Boys that he was making a terrible decision and held the man's staring contest, painfully aware of how much time he may or may not have.

Eventually, Captain Moriarty nodded once. 'Sebastian, take them through to my cabin. Little Sherlock may sleep on the floor. Stay with them, though. I don't trust Lost Boys.' The final sentence was spoken like a curse, and Mycroft felt insulted and irrationally angry despite not really being a part of it.

'I'm going with you.' Greg stepped forward, glaring at any of the pirates that tried to block his way. '_I_ don't trust adults.' It sounded as much of a curse and Captain Moriarty had made his own statement, and Mycroft was pleased to notice the irritation in the Irishman's eyes. Evidently this somebody who didn't like to be reminded of their adulthood. Mycroft filed it away for information he may later need, and scooped Sherlock up into his arms, cradling him close to his chest and trying not to worry too much about how cold he was, how he was clutching onto John but didn't seem able to let him go.

Sebastian lead the way to the door but made them go in first, standing directly in front of it as soon as they were all inside. Mycroft held onto Sherlock and Greg put a few covers that were in the corner down on the floor. Greg looked up at Sebastian as Mycroft rested his brother on the floor and started pulling his shirt off him, peeling it from the skin and grimacing worriedly.

'Don't suppose we'd be granted any privacy?' He asked. 'For Sherlock's sake?' Sebastian shook his head silently, folding his arms. 'Right, then.' He sighed and draped an old heavy coat over Sherlock while Mycroft removed his trousers and looked for somewhere to hang them to dry.

Having neatly put them over the still warm fire, Mycroft returned to his brothers' side, using the sheets to dry him off and tucking him in so he could stay as warm as possible.

Greg and Mycroft sat with their backs against the end of Moriarty's bed, a fire blazing that Greg had cooked up to raise Sherlock's body temperature. He wasn't so cold any more, and Mycroft dared to hope that he'd be alright.

Until Sherlock woke, though, the two had something else to deal with. Dimmock, and Sebastian. Sebastian didn't seem to be leaving any time soon, but if they needed guarding, or rather guarding _from_, Dimmock must surely be in the room.

After an hour or so, Jim shouted for Sebastian to get onto the deck, and the first mate tried to argue that he needed to stay on guard, Jim told him not to be an idiot and get to his side stat, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone, waiting for Sherlock to stir.

'So, before he gets back from whatever it is Jim is making him do.' Greg stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans and looking around the room. 'I think we have a fairy to find, Mycroft. And who knows, maybe he'll be able to help wake up Sherlock.'

Mycroft nodded and stood up, looking around. The room was dimly lit, meaning the far corners were difficult to see, and the place was a neat mess of a room, containing all manner of charting equipment, books, and parchment, as well as a few jewellery items Mycroft didn't want to look at too closely, lest he recognise it and work out where some missing jewels have gone fro London.

There were hundreds of places that a bottle might be able to hide, or a jaw or even just a small box. The hiding places for a fairy were limitless, he realised. Even underneath a floorboard, were Sebastian feeling up to it. 'This is going to be nearly impossible, Greg.' He whined. 'What if he can't find him?'

'Then we keep looking, of course. We all came here to rescue Dimmock, and that's what we're going to do now. It's like a treasure hunt, Mycroft. Just look everywhere, even where you think you can't possibly fit a fairy.'

It took ten minutes of endless searching, by the end of which Mycroft was beginning to feel like giving up, shouting, and sweeping everything onto the floor in the hopes of smashing whatever Dimmock was in, when Greg gave a shout of enthusiastic pride and produced a small jar, with a cloth screw top lid. Dimmock was sat inside, legs crossed, arms folded at them.

'Yes, I know, it took us a while.' Greg unscrewed the lid and Dimmock stood on the edge, flexing his wings experimentally and glaring at Greg. 'But we were a little caught up in things. I'm sorry.'

Dimmock ignored him, flitting over to Sherlock and resting on his chest, looking up at the two boys confusedly as a stream of light sounds, like bells being chimed in a soft breeze, filled the air.

'He came here to get you on his own.' Greg explained sadly. 'Jim found him, of course, and made him sleep on the deck.' Dimmock looked shocked, and started tapping Sherlock's face, trying to wake him up. 'We've warmed him up a little, he should be waking up soon if we're very very lucky.'

Dimmock explained what had happened while they waited for Sherlock to wake, telling them both how he'd been on his way to the dance when Moran had stepped in out of nowhere and taken him, stashing him into a jar and nearly permanently damaging his wings.

Mycroft sat cross-legged by Sherlock's limp form, and invited Dimmock to settle on his arm so he could get a closer look at his wing. It was creased, but not so bad that they couldn't heal it with a few days' rest.

Half an hour later, Mycroft shushed Greg, who in the middle of an explanation concerning how they were all going to get out of Sherlock didn't wake. He'd felt movement, and was sure Sherlock's dark unruly curls had brushed against his leg for a moment. The two Lost Boys and the fairy stared at him without daring to breathe, breaking into soft smiles as Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and he looked around confusedly.

'What… What happened? Myc?' He frowned up at his brother. 'You're not supposed to be here. Moriarty-'

'It's alright, he knows we're here.' Mycroft smoothed the hair from his face as Greg attempted to look a little frustrated but could only manage relief.

'You idiot, Sherlock. You shouldn't have come here alone without telling anybody. We were so worried.' The lack of venom behind his words earned a tired smile from Sherlock.

'Sorry. I couldn't sleep, and I wanted to find Dimmock.' He sat up slightly. 'He said- He said Dimmock would be in his cabin, so we have to find him now.' Sherlock seemed to be rather stressed for a boy who'd only just woken up, and tried to stand. Before either of them could stop him, Dimmock for there first, hovering in front of Sherlock and spreading his arms as if to say the it was alright, he was here, and Sherlock didn't need to worry.

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he grinned. 'So, really, by falling unconscious like that and needing to be taken into warmth, I helped you find Dimmock?'

Laughing, Mycroft nodded. 'That's an incredibly skewed way of looking at it, but yes, I suppose that's true.' Dimmock landed on Sherlock's shoulder, settling against his neck, and the boy picked up John, cuddling him close and fussing over how cold he was.

'Hang on.' Looking down at his bare chest, Sherlock looked suspiciously up at them both. 'Where're my clothes?' Mycroft explained the condition they'd found him in, and how they'd needed to get Sherlock as dry and warm as possible in the shortest time they could. Sherlock nodded understandingly and looked over at his clothes resting near the fireplace. 'Can you get my clothes for me, please? I'd like to stand up, but with at least my trousers on.'

Mycroft nodded, checking how dry and warm the clothes were before handing them over. They were incredibly warm to the touch, and Mycroft knew that they'd probably managed to get through the worst of the potential danger without much of a problem. 'Sherlock, even though you're awake, we're nowhere near getting off the ship. Moriarty's men have got the Lost Boys surrounded, so we might need to fight our way out. Do you think you can do that?'

'Of course I can, I can fence.' Sherlock grinned, pulling on his pyjama trousers and humming contentedly at how hot they were. 'But I have no sword.'

'When I was looking around, I found one.' Greg stood, looking around the corners of the room and returning a few minutes later with a thin sword. Sherlock took hold of it and weighed it up in his hand, testing the heaviness and cutting through the air and trying to re-learn the moves he'd learned so very long ago in classes. 'Well you weren't joking; you really do know about fencing.'

Sherlock flashed him a smile, cheeks starting to heat up as he moved. 'It'll be good to finally use this stuff I've been taught.' He commented, tucking John under his arm and rolling his shoulders in preparation.


	22. Chapter 22

The Lost Boys sat close together to save their energy and stay warm, rope tying them to the mast. The Twins were talking in hushed tones, smiling and staying relatively calm. Adric had spent the time trying to talk the pirates into letting them go with charmed words and friendly conversation that wasn't working very well. Anderson and Sally had begun bickering jokingly about small things, just to pass the time, and Benjamin kept his eye on the cabin, seeing movement behind the glass but unable to see exactly what it all was.

Sebastian had been called down to the deck by Jim to talk to the Lost Boys. It was the classic case of 'join the crew or walk the plank', but none of them were that interested. They might have been, if it had been Hook, but even then not interested enough to join. Adric had pointed out that Hook was a nicer Captain than Jim was an got a hand to his face at the remark, which had effectively silenced him for a few minutes.

Captain Moriarty was waking back and forth in front of them, talking about what he might do with a gleeful expression, asking for Sebastian's views and thoughts as he did so, when Benjamin noticed the door to the cabin slowly open. Captain Moriarty was too distracted by his ideas to notice the three boys slip out of the room and hide behind some crates, followed by a small ball of light the size of a fist.

Benjamin kept his expression calm and didn't bother trying to tell Jake on his left, or Zak on his right, in case he alerted the pirates that something was amiss. Instead, he stayed silent.

Just as Captain Moriarty was saying he might re-enact some old techniques he'd read about back in London, a shout came from behind him. Turning on the spot, the Captain saw nothing, and looked around suspiciously. 'If you've got out, boys, I'm not going to be happy.' He warned, voice dark and promising all the things he'd already voiced and much worse.

Without warning, Greg fell from above Captain Moriarty, tackling him to the ground and hitting him before he had the chance to react. Sherlock threw himself at Sebastian, knocking him over as Mycroft ran around the mast and cut the Lost Boys free. Within seconds an entire fight had broken out, with the boys grabbing the weapons that had been piled up nearby and fighting off the pirates as they tried to get to the edge of the ship or clear enough to fly out of danger.

Mycroft tried to keep track of everyone while defending himself from a man that was trying cut him wherever he could. Benjamin and Jake had managed to get into the air, out of the way of danger. The Twins stood back to back, trying to clear a space around them. Sally and Anderson pushed a pirate overboard and jumped into the air by the other two, watching and waiting for everyone else.

Finally, everyone was waiting over the ship, except Greg. None of the other pirates were joining in the fight, probably as part of a rule that Greg was immediately only the Captain's fight, and he was going to be the one to take him down.

'You should have left with your fearless leader.' Jim spat at him, lashing forwards with a sword that Greg skilfully avoided. 'Although he wasn't that fearless if he left as soon as he saw Hook, was he?'

'Because you were sick enough to hang him on our tree!' Mycroft frowned as he lost his temper and jumped forwards, trying to catch his blade against Captain Moriarty's skin. 'It's no wonder. He was just a boy!'

They shouted insults and comments back and forth, always managing to avoid being cut. In the end, Greg managed to duck and kicked to the side, his foot colliding with Moriarty's leg and sending him down to his knees. The Lost Boys cheered as Greg jumped up into the air, neatly flying out of reach of the other pirates that immediately stepped forward to get him and hold him down.

'We all here?' Greg looked around, checking everyone was alright. Sherlock smiled, holding John close to his chest and staying close to them all. 'Brilliant. Let's get back to safety, shall we?' They all nodded, and set off towards Neverland, leaving the ship behind.

Jim sat up, staring angrily at the figures flying away from the ship. 'That was a bad move.' He muttered. 'If he gets near this ship again, or onto the beach, I'm going to kill him.'

Sebastian nodded, helping him up. 'I'm sorry, Boss.'

'He'll be sorry.' Jim answered, staring for a moment longer before looking around at the crew. 'Well go on, get back to work!'

-

The boys didn't land until they reached the clearing, doing loops in the air and flying around each other as they made their way back to land. Everybody was flying on the adrenaline of surviving a close brush with Captain Moriarty, and nobody had been harmed.

Mycroft stayed close to Greg, but in his mind he wasn't celebrating along with the others. It had been a close call; and Sherlock could have died. And while it was a relief that he was safe now, Mycroft couldn't get past it.

As they touched down, everyone began still talking excitedly, re-enacting events and close calls that they'd had like young boys comparing battle scenes in a film they'd all seen. Mycroft took a step back, thinking through everything.

-

'Mycroft, are you alright?' Greg stood beside him, frowning. 'You've got that look again.'

-

Mycroft shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. Neverland didn't feel safe any more, it didn't feel like home as much as it had these past few days. Or had it been months? He had a feeling like they'd been here for a month or more, but it was so difficult to know. 'I think it's time that went back to London.' He admitted quietly, feeling the twist in his stomach as he spoke. Neverland had been his dream, and it had more than lived up to his expectations, but he didn't feel like he belonged here any more.


	23. Chapter 23

Greg nodded understandingly, and Mycroft was pleasantly surprised that he didn't try to convince him to stay. 'Alright. I'm coming with you.'

Mycroft stopped breathing for a few moments, trying to understand what Greg had just told him. 'You… You really care that much?' He asked quietly. Greg smiled, closing the small gap between where they were sat and kissing him openly, in front of all the Lost Boys. Mycroft pulled away and blushed upon hearing whistles and cheers from the boys nearby and cooing from Sally.

'Of course I do, you idiot.' Greg grinned, turning to the others. 'Boys, Mycroft's going back to London. And I'm going with him. Anybody else want to go?'

None of the others seemed quite ready to return to the town they'd been picked up from, but Sherlock ran over, latching himself around Mycroft's waist and crawling onto his lap sadly. 'You're really going back?'

'I am, yes. But you don't need to.' Mycroft stroked his hair, emotions welling up inside him. While he was reluctant to leave Sherlock here alone, he had already realised long ago that this was where boys came to learn to grow up, rather than to avoid it. In the end, they all return to where they came from, fully formed in their young bodies, aware of far more than the adults around them. Since coming to Neverland Mycroft had discovered more about himself, about how to act and how to believe.

'I can stay here as long as I like?' Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded, smiling, and Sherlock cuddled John closer. 'But I'll be lonely without you.'

'You've got John, and the others.' Mycroft pointed out kindly.

'They're not you.'

Mycroft started forming a soothing answer, but Dimmock flitted in front of them, followed by the telltale sound of bells through a breeze that signified he was trying to communicate. Greg listened intently, nodding a few times and smiling as he listened. 'Sherlock,' he started, voice slow, 'why don't you put John in the middle of the clearing for a moment?'

Sherlock clutched John tighter, eyes widening. 'I don't want to.' Greg slowly talked him around to it, and Sherlock left his best friend in the middle of the clearing as Dimmock disappeared.

He returned a few minutes later, followed by many other faires. In synchronisation, they surrounded John in light, swarming around him and rotating as if one entity. The light emanating from them grew brighter and more powerful, until none of them could look at the peculiar happenings for more than a second. Sherlock cried out John's name, but Mycroft pulled him close to prevent him running forward.

The lights faded slightly, receding and the close circle spread to reveal a boy curled up where John had been only moments before.

Sherlock stared openly, along with the other Lost Boys, as the boy sat up. He wore a cable knit jumper that fitted perfectly, and dark jeans. His hair was short, but curiously the exact same shade as the fur of Sherlock's bear. His eyes were the same soft blue as the bear's eyes had been, too.

'…John?' Sherlock spoke shakily, as if not quite believing that he was even saying the name out loud, and the boy looked over to him, thin lips spreading into a warm smile.

'Sherlock.' His voice seemed to match him perfectly, and he stood carefully, as if unsure if his legs would hold him. He took deep breaths, blinking slowly and looking around as if seeing the world for the first time. The boy looked at Sherlock again as he got close enough to touch. 'It's me, Sherlock. It's John.' The boy smiled again, less pleased and more affectionate now. 'I've wanted to talk to you for so very long. To hold you back as you hold me.' He extended his arms, and Sherlock stepped into his personal space, wrapping his arms around his best friend and clutching the fabric of his jumper in his fists as he held him close. For the first time, John held him just as strongly.

Leaving Neverland had been easier and harder than Mycroft had been anticipating. It was easy because he knew that his time in Neverland had come to a close, and it was time to face the world once more. He couldn't hide forever.

And yet it was difficult. He knew Sherlock would be happy, especially now that John could talk back to him and they still shared a bed, because that's what they'd always done and it changed nothing, really, but Mycroft just hoped he'd be safe. Leaving somewhere he'd been dreaming of, and knowing that he was going to return to a life he was unhappy with, a life he dreaded, that's what made it painful. But having Greg at his side made it easier.

When the two of them turned up at the door that had once belonged to the Darling's, it was less like coming home, more like visiting. His father and mother had held onto him tightly, crying, but Mycroft didn't have it in him to cry with them. He'd been driven out by them, and didn't regret it for a second. Trying to explain who this punk by his side was, and that he didn't _kidnap_ Mycroft was as difficult as leaving Neverland behind had been.

And yet, eventually, he talked them around. Of course, he couldn't explain where he'd been, but he managed to tell them he'd needed time, to come to terms with everything. He told them he'd stayed in youth hostels, where he met Greg, who had nowhere to live. Mycroft told his parents that he was ready to grow up, so long as Greg was allowed to grow up with him. His parents must have seen something in the looks they exchanged, the way their hands lingered close together when they sat on the couch to talk about what had happened, because they didn't argue, only smiled.

Mycroft explained that Sherlock had gone with him, and was staying with the hostel owners, attending school. He hadn't returned because he wanted to try to improve his personality. Mycroft knew how ridiculous it sounded, but knowing one of their sons was safe seemed to calm them and make it clear how they'd not been the best parents.

When Sherlock returned six months later, with John by his side and the introduction that John had been staying with him, there was more of the same from their parents, who had managed to lose two sons and suddenly acquire four. Their mother welcomed John, cooing over him and commenting on how much he reminded her of Sherlock's old bear. When asked, Sherlock simply said he had John in person, so he no longer needed a bear.

Years passed, and Mycroft did take up a _minor_ position in the British Government, one which allowed him to swing the applications to Scotland Yard and get Gregory – Mycroft insisted on the name, saying it suited him perfectly - onto the fast track to Detective Inspector. Sherlock joined cases, with John ever at his side, to help.

As their old friends had returned from Neverland, they'd all met up, staying close to each other as they grew up. Sally got adopted by a lovely family just a few blocks away, the twins flitted in and out of care, mostly living as they pleased in Kensington Gardens. Anderson lived across town, but came over whenever he could, and Benjamin lived just down the street, to Sherlock's utter joy.

Adric and Jake popped up from time to time, eventually consulting officially with their old leader's division of Scotland Yard, doubling up with Sherlock every now and again, while Sally and Anderson mysteriously got jobs working next to Greg.

Alex found a boy who loved him, accepted him and all his flaws, after a little while of moving from person to person. He had an Irish accent, hair a little messy. The Irish boy never spoke much of his family, aside from that his uncle had mysteriously disappeared when he was young but they'd not been close. Richard Brook was told by his family that he resembled his missing uncle, but had none of his characteristics. He went into acting, presenting a children's TV series, and Alex created the affects for him.

Zak was adopted by a family that didn't quite understand him, but he'd known they never would. When he had lived with them for a while, he went to a book singing and met a girl he'd been shocked to admit was older than him, but was still so very young. She taught him that growing up is entirely optional, and that all his imperfections, his small traits and problems, they were all a part of what made him so wonderful.

They Lost Boys slowly grew into Lost Men who'd found where they belonged, but often remembered their times in Neverland with strong fondness. They spoke of Peter with fascination, wondering what had become of him, although nobody attempted to find him. It would be a simple matter of searching for the Darling's in old records and tracking down Wendy, but none of them wished the see the boy who never grew up as an aged man.

So they amused themselves with recollections of their adventures, dwelling on them and letting them fuel them in the knowledge that whatever they did, they were still Lost Boys at heart, as was every child that had once believed in Peter. In fact, they knew there were Lost Boys at that moment, in Neverland, fighting Captain Moriarty, dancing with the Indians and swimming with the Mermaids, the perfect way to keep the memory of Peter Pan alive.

After all, it's all happened before, and it will all happen again.

-The End-

Well that was fantastic to write, honestly. I got a bit teary over the final few pages, I admit. Hope you all enjoyed the ride!

-Lorcan.


End file.
